Apotheosis
by Miskcat
Summary: Roy Mustang discovers that destroying the huge transmutation circle in the buried city beneath Central will be much more difficult than anticipated, with drastic consequences.
1. A Deep Problem

**First: infinite thanks to Roaming Fool, who beta'd this chapter!**

_This story takes place in the anime-verse, after the movie. So the "minor spoilers" will be for those who haven't seen the movie._

_This is the first chapter of a nine-chapter story. I wanted to start getting something up here, even though there may yet be some changes. Any changes to this particular chapter will only be cosmetic, however, so I think I can put it up while the next ones are still being edited._

**Chapter 1 – A Deep Problem**

The way tales told it later, Roy Mustang returned from his self-imposed exile purely out of the goodness of his heart and in service to his country, to try to save the world. And only reluctantly did he accept all the honours and rank that the new parliament pressed upon him in eternal gratitude.

Those who attended parliament that day, as well as those who knew Mustang better, smiled ruefully and added some details that never got into the first story.

He had stood with casual assurance on the audience floor at the base of the circularassembly hall, the members of parliament ranged in solemn rows above him in the bowl of the amphitheatre, while attending citizens watched from the gallery above them. A hand in one pocket, the other gesturing to emphasize his points, he described in crisp detail what must be done to destroy the huge transmutation circle in the dead city underneath Central, so that a conquering invasion from the other world could never happen again.

As he spoke, the late morning sun began to slant in from the topmost row of windows in the eastern wall of the building. By the time he had finished, a swath of brilliant light illuminated him, emphasizing the clean lines of his uniform and the calm confidence of his stance, while everything around him melted into vague shadow.

Up in the gallery, his former subordinates, Lieutenants Hawkeye and Havoc, glanced knowingly at each other.

"Manipulative bastard, isn't he?" Havoc murmured approvingly. Hawkeye's lips twitched in response, though she said nothing.

And when the prime minister asked what he would require in return for destroying the alchemic circle and making Central safe again, Mustang had smiled – in that narrow, self-assured way he had, eyes downcast (or rather, eye downcast, since one ruined eye was now covered by a patch) – and had coolly requested a return of all honours, rank, and status that he had given up after the disappearance of the Fuhrer and the formation of the new government.

An astonished murmur had rippled throughout the assembly as the prime minister watched the man. Mustang hadn't moved, maintaining his relaxed demeanour, calmly awaiting the governing body's decision. He appeared ready to accept either agreement or refusal with equal tranquility. But they knew – and most importantly, so did he – that they were virtually at his mercy.

Lieutenant-Colonel Alex Louis Armstrong, who had stood just behind the man during the entire proceeding, always maintained that the Flame Alchemist would have undertaken the task no matter what parliament's response had been. Mustang's subordinates staunchly agreed. But even they would chuckle, and admit that the scene was exactly what you'd have expected from him. He always had conducted his career with a certain arrogant flair.

Those who still missed the old regime and had not forgotten Mustang's part in the demise of the Fuhrer were not pleased at his revived heroic status and parliament's uncomfortable role of supplicant. They muttered in the background that the man was finally doing very well for himself despite his part in Bradley's overthrow. Two years' exile hadn't been much of a price to pay, had it?

In the end, though, the dissenting voices were completely silenced, while the tale of the "selfless" alchemist took hold in the public imagination. And the odd thing was that those who knew him, despite the details they could add to the story, claimed that the popular tale was ultimately the true one after all. Roy Mustang loved his country – loved his world, in fact -- despite all he had suffered for them, and would be willing to give his very life's blood in their service, whether or not he received anything in return.

Still, in the weeks after the Elric brothers had crossed the Gate to the world on the other side, everything was restored to him: his rank as general, his certification as a State Alchemist, his wealth, his reputation, medals, honour – everything. Whatever he asked for in those weeks was given to him without question. He had already helped save the world once, and nobody was going to begrudge anything he wanted as he strove to make it permanently safe.

The process began when he made his way down for the first time to the underground cavern, to view the buried city. He took Armstrong with him, along with Hawkeye and Havoc, as well as the others who had served under his command before his absence, and had now returned to his company: Falman, Breda, and Fuery.

Mustang and Armstrong halted at the top of the path, gazing down in stunned silence at the panorama spread before them. The cavern curved around in a bowl shape, the dead city filling the bowl, its buildings tilting drunkenly toward the open square in the centre as they rose up the sides. The original lines of streets and avenues were still visible, and the boulevards where long-dead trees had marched down the middle of main roads. The higher the buildings rose up the sides of the vast bowl, the more they stood in shadow.

There was one wide swath of light that slashed in at an angle from the jagged hole that had been blasted into the cavern roof by the escaping ships of the invaders. But apart from that, the stone in the high, arching roof gave off a silvery sheen that lit the centre of the city almost as brightly as daylight and made the path clear before the observers' feet. The dust glittered as they disturbed it, and the edges of their shadows seemed to shimmer at the edges.

"That light has an odd quality to it...," Armstrong murmured.

"I can feel it," Mustang answered, his voice falling into the silence as though muffled by blankets. "It makes my skin crawl."

The group proceeded down the curving path in silence. There was a heavy quality to this place that quelled any impulse to speak. The buildings were perfectly intact, as though one could glance into any window and expect to see people going about their normal lives inside. But they were dead and empty, and a deathly hush lay over everything. The sound of the intruders' footfalls seemed to absorb into the dead air, thickening around them like an aural fog as they made their way down toward the bottom of the bowl.

The air was dry and equally lifeless, all growth and even decay having shrivelled and disappeared from this cavern centuries ago. As the visitors breathed, it seemed to suck the moisture from their mouths and lungs, and when they swallowed afterward, they could taste sterile dust.

When they emerged into the huge centre square, with the city rising in tilted rows all around, it seemed to loom above with an almost physical, oppressive weight, as though ready to collapse on top of them. Yet on the way down, Armstrong had detoured a couple of times to test the stability of a few buildings that tilted especially precariously, and had discovered that all were fixed and stable despite appearances.

The group approached the gigantic transmutation circle and paused at the edge. Fuery bent to reach a curious hand toward one of the lines on the pavement.

"Don't touch that!" Mustang barked.

Fuery jerked his hand back and stood up. "Sorry, sir," he muttered. "Sorry."

"I just don't want to risk something happening to you, that's all," Mustang explained, touching his shoulder briefly. "Best to stay back till we know it's safe, all right?" He paced a few steps along the boundary of the circle, Armstrong walking in the other direction, each peering at the patterns of the array.

Havoc turned slowly around and around, gazing up at the buildings surrounding them in rising tiers. "An entire city," he mused. "It doesn't even look like it collapsed in an earthquake. No cracks in the ground, no broken buildings...though there is that tilt, the higher up you go. But how did it get down here? How can you sink a whole city into a cavern like this, without any damage to it?"

"It was pulled down here, deliberately," Mustang said.

"But how? How could it be done at all, deliberately or not?"

His commander's eye fixed itself on him, and Havoc felt the hair beginning to stand up on the back of his neck. "Alchemy," was all the man said, before returning to his study of the surroundings. But after a moment he added quietly, as though to himself, "Never trust anyone who has lived for such a very long time."

"Who do you mean, sir? The homunculi?" Hawkeye asked.

"I'm not sure. It's something Hohenheim said to me. He seemed to be talking about the homunculi, but...I think he meant more than that."

Mustang stepped into the array, bending slightly to trace the path of its lines, moving back and forth across the circle. Armstrong joined him inside it, walking a slightly different path as he, too, carefully observed how the lines were arranged.

"This place gives me the creeps," Breda muttered, hunching into himself as though he could feel the weight of the buildings bearing down on him.

"Try to think of something else, Breda," Havoc said absently, still surveying the lines of the streets rising above him.

"Think of something else. Right. Never would have thought of that," Breda rolled his eyes.

Mustang went down on one knee, calling, "Armstrong, come here. Let's activate this array, and get a better idea what it does."

"Activate, sir?" Falman shifted his feet uneasily. "Won't that open the Gate again?"

"I don't think so. But we'll stop before it can go that far." Mustang glanced at Armstrong as the big man bent beside him. "I wish there'd been time for Al to tell me more about this array before he had to jump across."

He pressed one palm into the circle, Armstrong's hands flattening on either side of his. The lines began to glow, and the two men closed their eyes as though needing to close down the outer senses to concentrate on the inner.

"It's...very complex...," Mustang whispered.

Armstrong nodded. "It would have to be. But...wait." He frowned. "What is this – "

Mustang leapt to his feet, staggering away, hunching over and retching violently. Armstrong strode to his side, throwing an arm about his shoulders. With the other he waved Hawkeye sternly back, as she thrust to the edge of the array.

"Hawkeye – stay away!" Mustang managed to gasp. He might have his back to her at the moment, but he knew her very well. "Just – just give me a minute. I'm fine." He pulled away from Armstrong, leaning over with his hands on his knees. He took a few long, scraping breaths, trying to calm the dry heaving of his body.

Hawkeye felt a firm hand on her arm, and tried to tug out of Havoc's grip. He said tersely, "I'm sure the chief can handle this. If he's reacting this way by standing on that thing, I don't think you want to know what might happen to you if you walk on it."

"I know, but..." She bit her lip, then nodded. "Yes. Of course you're right. For now."

At last Roy straightened, taking control of himself. But he could barely mask the revulsion on his face as he turned back to Armstrong. "You felt it...?" It was half-statement, half-question.

"I did," Armstrong nodded with a grimace. "It's an abomination."

For some reason, Roy was gazing up at the buildings again, scanning them, up and up as far as they climbed. "That's why it's empty." His voice shook and he swallowed, as though on the verge of gagging again. "That's what happened..."

"But who could have done it?" Armstrong burst out. "To commit such abomination – such, such monstrosity – "

"Lieutenant-Colonel." Roy stopped him with a hand on his arm. Then he turned to face his subordinates, still lined up along the edge of the circle, watching anxiously. "All of you. I need to know who else has been in this place, or who knew about it. Ed came here, and never returned until the Gate opened recently from the other world. Did anyone come back to the surface after he vanished? Aside from Al? Who would have known anything about what happened when Ed came here?"

"Maybe Ed's teacher," Havoc ventured. "She was an alchemist. What was her name...?"

"Izumi," Hawkeye supplied. "But she died recently."

"Think," Roy urged them, stepping closer to the edge of the circle. "It wouldn't have to have been an alchemist. Al reappeared as a ten-year old boy with no memory of how he got here. How did he find his way out?"

"Rose," Armstrong remembered. "The girl Rose, from Lior. She was here, and took the boy home."

"Good. That's the kind of information I need. Is she in Lior now?"

"Only recently. She lived with the Rockbells for a while after Edward disappeared."

The Rockbells. Mustang shared a glance with Hawkeye at the edge of the circle. "I see," was all he said, however. "Then she may have told them something as well. We'll stop in there, on our way to Lior."

"We won't need to, sir," Falman interjected. "Winry Rockbell is here, in Central."

"Are you sure? What would she be doing here?"

"She came to find Ed. She brought him a new set of automail. Though I don't know how she knew he was going to show up."

"I called her, actually," Mustang said. "Before I came to Central myself. But never mind that. How do you know she's still here?"

"I saw her in Sciezka's office yesterday. She said she's staying for another week."

"Then that might save some time. Winry might have enough information that I won't need to speak with Rose."

They left the underground cavern shortly thereafter. Havoc walked up the path just ahead of the two alchemists. He didn't actually plan to eavesdrop, especially since they weren't talking about much more than the composition of the stone that made up the high roof. But he almost couldn't help listening when Armstrong's voice suddenly dropped in volume.

"You know this isn't going to be as straightforward as we thought, Roy."

"I know. It goes so deep..."

Their footsteps fell in a measured pace, the sound quickly muffled and absorbed into the heavy atmosphere.

"Do you even need to speak with Miss Rockbell?" Armstrong continued. "You must already know what went on here."

"I know some of it. Maybe I'm hoping she'll tell me it wasn't as bad as I think it was."

Havoc found himself straining to listen now. What could Winry Rockbell possibly know, and what was it about this place that had the two greatest alchemists in Amestris so worried?

"But you felt what I felt. There's not much chance that we're mistaken," Armstrong insisted.

A short silence. "I know," Mustang said quietly.

When they reached the sanctuary at the top of the stairs, he issued crisp instructions. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us, people, so listen carefully. Breda, I need you to talk to the munitions people. Find out how quickly we'll be able to get a very large amount of explosives."

"Just how large, sir?"

"Maybe enough to level the underground city."

Breda gaped. "The city? The _entire_ city?"

"I'm not sure yet. But take them down with you, and get an estimate. I need it in the next four or five days. No, make it a week."

"Yes, sir."

"Falman." Roy moved to the next task. "I need maps of Central. I want you and Fuery to compare them to the location and dimensions of the underground city. Then go down there and scout its upper edges, for other exits. If there are any openings aside from this one," he indicated the stairwell behind them, "I want to know about them. I also want to know exactly what parts of Central are sitting on top of the cavern roof. If we do shake things up down there, we'll need to reinforce buildings up here."

"Yes, sir," Falman saluted.

Mustang turned to Havoc. "I want you to requisition several work crews. Five or six crews, twenty or thirty people per team. As many as you can get on short notice. We'll need a couple of engineers and munitions experts per team. If you can get some people right away to help Falman and Fuery scout the city, so much the better. But I'd like all teams ready to roll in two weeks, if we don't need to go to Lior."

"I'll get right on it, chief."

"Hawkeye, find Winry Rockbell, and ask if she'd be willing to speak to me. I'll give you the name of a café where we can meet with some privacy. Tomorrow, if she'd like. Tell her that lunch is on me."

"Yes, sir."

"And Hawkeye..." This, as she had already turned to go.

"Sir?" She paused, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Roy's voice softened. "This is a request to her, not a command. If she doesn't want to see me, I'll accept that. Be kind to her."

Their eyes held, till Riza nodded. "I understand. I'll make sure she knows."

"Thank you." He sustained the look a moment longer, then turned away. "Now. You all have work to do. Lieutenant-Colonel Armstrong and I will start planning how to destroy that array."

"General Mustang, sir?" Fuery ventured. "I don't really get it. Is it really so hard to destroy the array? Can't you just...I don't know...erase it somehow?"

"With most arrays, yes. But this one..." Mustang paused, weighing his words. "This one isn't just painted on the stones. It...goes deeper than that. It's going to be complicated. But I'll explain later, when we have more details."

They began to disperse to their various tasks while Armstrong and Mustang stayed back, to continue their earlier discussion. Hawkeye took a few steps toward the exit, but hesitated, looking over her shoulder.

"Riza," Havoc said. "It's okay to leave him for a while. You don't need to protect him any more."

Still she hesitated, until Roy himself glanced up and fell silent. After a moment he murmured, "Go. I'm fine." Only then did she turn, to walk wordlessly out of the sanctuary as the general watched her go.

Havoc found the other men outside the building, preparing to disperse to their appointed jobs. But he seemed to have walked into the middle of a conversation, and Fuery immediately commandeered him for his opinion.

"He's changed, don't you think, Lieutenant? General Mustang, I mean. Don't you think he's different?"

"I don't," Breda said. "He's as good as ever at giving orders."

"Well," Havoc drawled, "that's his job, isn't it?"

"Yes, but there's more to it than that," Fuery insisted. "He seems... nicer. Or at least, he's more willing to explain things. I don't know, I can't really describe it. It's just a feeling I have."

"Maybe he's right, Breda," Havoc said. "Remember when we visited him at that god-forsaken outpost? When he talked about giving up alchemy because every time he tried to use it, he thought of all the people who had died because of him? He'd never have told us something like that, before."

"Well...maybe," Breda conceded.

Havoc thought again of Hawkeye's hesitation a few moments ago, and the general's response to it. Mustang wasn't the only one who had been subtly changed after the events of two years ago. He suddenly wondered if he himself had undergone similar changes, without realizing it.

"Anyway." He brought himself back to the conversation. "It doesn't matter that much. We've still got work to do, don't we? Better get at it, all of you."

"See?" Breda said triumphantly. "He's still a slave driver, and he's turning you into one too. I suppose that means you don't want to draw straws either?"

"For what?"

Fuery said, "We're picking whoever is going to try to find out what the general talks to Winry Rockbell about."

"Why bother," Havoc smirked, "if Mustang is supposed to be much better at explaining things lately?"

"Well, we may think he's changed a bit, but we're not stupid," Fuery answered.

"Besides," Havoc added, "we don't need to draw straws. We'll just send Falman back to Sciezka's office to get the scoop. Winry's bound to tell her everything."

Three sets of eyes fixed themselves on Falman, who was already slumping glumly. Havoc slapped him on the back. "Piece of cake, right?" He put on his best Roy Mustang imitation. "Get on it, Falman. I'll want the information in three days – no, make that two." He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it jauntily between his lips. "Now, I don't know about you shirkers, but I have things to do."

He sauntered off, heading for the military headquarters. Nope, he thought, no change here. I'm still the same guy I've always been.


	2. The Bitter Taste of Truth

**Again, thank you to Roaming Fool for beta-ing this chapter!**

_This will be a Royai story eventually. Keep reading!_

**Chapter 2 – The Bitter Taste of Truth**

The little café hummed with conversation and laughter as noon hour patrons came and went, enjoying meals at the small tables or picking up something quick to take to a park. The sunshine did not penetrate directly inside, but the cheerful yellow walls reflected light from the outside patio, brightening the inner room enough that lamps were not needed.

The front wall of the café had been opened to take advantage of the warm day, and the casual atmosphere of the patio had spilled inward, where patrons were more inclined than usual to remove their jackets, roll up their sleeves, and contemplate taking the afternoon off. Waiters in crisp white aprons moved smoothly among the tables with plates, trays, and pitchers, choreographed like an obscure ballet performed to the chiming music of cutlery tinkling against dishes. So expert were the staff that they automatically ducked even the tendrils of the plants in baskets hanging at regular intervals from the ceiling beams.

White plates and cups punctuated the bright green tablecloths, while cool water cascaded in little waterfalls from pitchers into clear glasses, as waiters paused to make laughing comments to the patrons, or check that all the diners' needs had been met. Occasionally, as one of the waiters passed by with a tray or a couple of loaded plates, heads would turn to follow the mouth-watering aromas that breezed past in their wake. The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.

The clientele of the café was varied, from young couples holding hands across their tables, to business people and professors enjoying a cup of coffee as they read the morning paper, to military personnel from Central Headquarters two blocks away.

It was the military uniforms that drew Winry's attention as she stepped into the doorway behind Lieutenant Hawkeye. Even before the girl's vision had fully adjusted from being out in the bright sun, her eyes began to dart from table to table, searching among the army personnel for the person she had come to meet.

She couldn't find him, and her heart lifted. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe there was still time to change hers.

"You're sure you can't tell me why he wanted to see me?" Winry asked.

Hawkeye glanced over her shoulder. "It's a complicated problem, I'm afraid. Better that he should explain it himself." The woman paused, her gaze softening, and added gently, "If you'd rather leave, Winry, please feel free. We know this is very uncomfortable for you."

Winry noted the "we," and inwardly sighed. Certain things had obviously not changed in two years. Yet they'd given her a choice rather than trying to coerce her, which was a new element in her complex relationship with the two of them. She should probably listen, at least at first. She just wished Hawkeye would stay and act as a buffer.

Again she surveyed the busy café. "I don't think he's here anyway."

"He's here," came the firm reply, and the lieutenant proceeded further in, weaving her way among the tables and leaving Winry little option but to follow.

The farthest corner of the room, opposite the patio area, was not actually a corner at all, its walls opening up and curving to form a rounded alcove with a window looking onto the tiny park next door. A wide, bending wooden trellis, twined with greenery from several ceramic pots in front of it, served as an inside "wall" that screened the alcove from the rest of the café.

As soon as Hawkeye began to walk in that direction, Winry knew who waited behind the screen. Her stomach tightened reflexively, and she wiped suddenly clammy hands against the folds of her skirt. Well, she thought, he did say they would talk privately. With this arrangement, they could do that, but he could also watch in case someone got too close and tried to eavesdrop. As they drew closer, she could see his outline through the leaves, and could tell that he sat with his back to the window, facing the trellis.

She wondered what he could possibly want to talk about, that would require this sort of watchfulness. Why hadn't he proposed a meeting in a truly private place, away from all these people?

Maybe because he knew she wouldn't come under those circumstances?

She wished, for a quick, desperate moment, that she hadn't come under these circumstances either. And then Hawkeye came to the opening and stepped aside, ushering the girl in, and there was General Mustang, imposing as ever in his military uniform, rising to his feet to greet her.

Winry stifled a gasp at the sight of the black patch scything across his face. It was the first time she'd seen him since his injury, and she couldn't imagine the kind of pain he must have endured. Yet her first twinge of sympathy swiftly subsided beneath a sudden impression of danger. That thing made him look downright sinister. If he tried to shake her hand, she thought she might be sick.

But he made no move toward her. Indeed, for an instant she could see the same unease on his face that he must see on hers. "Miss Rockbell," he said at last. "Thank you for coming. I appreciate it." He nodded at Hawkeye. "Thank you, lieutenant. I'll see you back at headquarters later."

Hawkeye didn't move, instead asking quietly, "Do you need me to stay, Winry?"

Mustang glanced sharply at his subordinate, opening his mouth as though to object, but almost immediately he smiled and seemed to relax, waiting.

So. He was willing to let Hawkeye stay if Winry wanted her to, even though he hadn't planned on extra company. For some reason, the girl found that reassuring. "It's all right," she found herself answering. "I think I'll be okay."

"Very well. Good day, then." Hawkeye turned briefly toward Mustang. "Shall I just return to the office?"

Their gaze held and the man smiled again. "Yes. And thank you. For everything."

Winry watched him watch the lieutenant leave, and wondered if he realized how his expression had softened as he looked at the woman. Suddenly the patch didn't look nearly as forbidding.

Involuntarily she remembered the last time she'd seen him, in her own home in Risemboul, when he and his soldiers had pursued Ed and Al all the way from Lior. He'd had both eyes then, but had refused to allow them to meet the hostility in hers, instead maintaining a stony silence. She had thought him arrogant and ambitious and uncaring. Until his facade had broken and at last, voice trembling, he had made the confession she had waited for. Yet even then, he'd had his back to her. She couldn't remember, now, if she'd ever actually looked directly into his two eyes.

Now, one-eyed, he turned warily back to her, and her unease returned.

"Please sit. I took the liberty of ordering wine." Mustang seated himself and waited politely for her to pull out her own chair and sit down. As he briskly straightened the cuffs of his uniform, it occurred to Winry that she'd never seen him wearing anything else. Today it made her feel as though she was about to face an interrogation.

He picked up the wine bottle, pouring her a glass, and she saw that the wine was red. She had always preferred red to white. Did he know this? Ed had always called the man a manipulator.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye said you needed to talk to me about something important." She decided to avoid small talk and come right to the point. Maybe she could get this over with quickly. She slipped her shoulder purse down her arm and onto the table, weaving the strap in and out through her fingers. "Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing that you need to worry about, Miss Rockbell," Mustang said. "I'm hoping you might have some information that can help me."

"What information could I have? Is it about Ed or Al?" she asked. "Or something to do with automail...?" She stole another quick glance at him, then looked quickly down at her hands, still twisting and twisting the purse strap. The patch on his face perverted his expression, a shadow cast over everything he said. She didn't know where to look.

He paused, finally assuring her quietly, "It's okay to look at it. At first I spent hours myself, staring at it in the mirror. I don't know that I'll ever quite be used to it."

"I – I'm sorry," she faltered, mortified. Still she couldn't look. "I'm sorry if I'm embarrassing you. I don't mean to, I – "

"Miss Rockbell." He was astonishingly gentle. "You aren't embarrassing or offending me. But maybe I'm asking too much of you. If you feel you should leave, you have every right, and I'll understand completely. It has to be hard, meeting me at all, being who I am. And then to have to look at me like this – "

"No!" Winry exclaimed. Without even realizing it, she stared him full in the face. "It isn't how you look. Well, not entirely. It's just hard to get used to, and I don't want to stare. And then there's...the other thing..."

"Yes. The 'other thing'. Your parents. There is always that." This time it seemed to be he who couldn't lift his gaze. He stared at the wine in his own glass, his mouth tightening as he spoke of the terrible thing that had always lain like a chasm between them.

It flooded over her, as always, in a tumble of emotional images: the crumpled letter in her grandmother's hand, sunlight slanting across the kitchen floor as the woman told her granddaughter as gently as possible that her parents were dead; the bloody dream images that had haunted her for years as her mind explored all the possible things the enemy Ishbalans could have done to her father and mother; the children kneeling beside her in the refugee camp, as she learned in a flash of anguish that it wasn't an enemy who had killed them at all, but one of her own countrymen, someone she had met and respected – a soldier – an alchemist, who could make flames --

Then a man standing on rocky ground beside a river near her home, shoulders slumping, his voice weary and resigned. "I shot two doctors once, in Ishbal..."

Winry wrenched her reeling mind free of the images. That was all behind them, and he'd tried with everything he had to atone for what he'd done. He had almost died trying, in fact. She had to be content with that, and leave it in the past. She swallowed, and tried to speak with conviction. "I...I don't hate you any more, for what you did. I thought you knew that. I forgave you, two years ago."

"Thank you. But I still have no right to ask anything of you."

"Just tell me what this is about. And if I can help somehow, I will."

The tight mouth relaxed very slightly. "Thank you," Mustang repeated. He folded his hands on the table before him. "As I said, I'm hoping you might have some information I can use, but it's not directly about Edward or Alphonse. I need to know what your friend Rose told you about the – " He glanced over her shoulder and suddenly broke off, sitting back in his chair as a waiter stepped into the alcove, bearing two menus.

So many of the listed items were exotic and new to Winry that Mustang needed to describe them to her. "You might like to try this scallops and foie gras dish," he recommended, leaning toward her across the table, angling the menu so she could see it. "Pastry surrounded by a thread of wine and butter sauce. Cut into the pastry and, mmm," he breathed deeply, "the aroma of truffles, the rush of foie gras into the sauce. And see, they recommend this wine. It combines pepperiness and honey, to cut through the richness of the dish, but enhance it at the same time."

He smiled at the menu as though reading a pleasant letter from a friend. For a brief moment, the tense undercurrents in their conversation seemed to vanish beneath his enjoyment. He scanned further down. "Ah. And this. The barbecued ribs or the marinated skewered chicken. Everything here is really quite good. It's been a while since I've been here, but I checked: they still have the same chef they had two years ago. So you won't go wrong, no matter what you choose."

When the waiter returned shortly afterward, Winry ordered the marinated chicken, while Mustang asked for the scallops and foie gras. He collected both menus and handed them back to the waiter, then picked up his glass. Smiling, he turned back toward Winry –

-- and seemed to remember, with a jolt, exactly where he was and who he was with. He set the glass back down and once again folded his hands on the table, gaze lowered.

"Now." His manner once again was all business. "As I was starting to say, I need to know whatever your friend Rose might have told you about the underground city, and how it was made, if in fact she knew anything. I understand she was there, when Ed disappeared and Al was brought back. If she didn't tell you anything, I will of course go to Lior to talk to her. But I thought I'd ask you first, since you're still in Central."

He would go to Lior? He'd pursue Rose, like he had followed Ed and Al all over the country for the sake of the military? What was going on here? "Whatever you think," Winry blurted, "Rose didn't do anything. Whatever happened down there, to Ed or to Al, it wasn't her fault."

His startled glance flew to her face. "I don't think it – "

"It _wasn't_," she insisted, her voice rising. "She didn't do anything to anybody. She was as much a victim as anybody else – "

"Miss Rockbell, please," Mustang interjected. "Rose is not in trouble."

"Then why are you asking this? Why would you go all the way to Lior just to talk to her, if she's not in trouble?"

The man flattened his hands on the tablecloth and answered quietly, "I'm asking because this information is more important than anyone can imagine."

"Important for what?" she demanded. "Some big military operation? Are you still trying to find ways to destroy people, after everything that's happened?"

His flinched as though she had struck him, then sat very still, eye closed and hands remaining as they were, pressed on the table. Winry caught her breath at the pallor of his face beneath the black eye patch and the fall of his black hair.

"I – I'm sorry," she faltered. "Maybe that was unfair..."

"On the contrary, Miss Rockbell," he breathed, opening his eye and fixing it on her face. "You have every reason to suspect me. But this time...this time I can promise you. Rose is not in trouble, and I am not looking for a way to hurt anyone. I am looking for a way to save the world from another invading force like the one that we just drove back."

Winry regarded him, chewing on her lip. "I see," she said. "Then I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions. And Rose did tell me a few things," she added, "but she couldn't always remember clearly, so I don't know how helpful they will be."

"Just let me decide that. Please tell me what she said."

"It wasn't much. There was a woman named Dante, who was an alchemist who lived 400 years ago. And she was still alive. She was the one controlling the ho – homun – "

"Homunculi," Roy murmured. "I always wondered who it was who controlled them. I knew Ed had defeated their master, but I never knew who it was. Did Rose know how she'd accomplished her longevity?"

"She said that Dante lived by jumping her spirit from body to body. That's why she had Rose with her, you see, because she was getting ready to jump into Rose's body. She couldn't do it without the philosopher's stone, though. But somehow – Rose didn't understand this at all – somehow, Al himself was turned into the philosopher's stone. That's why they captured him and took him down into the city."

"Al...the stone...it must have happened in Lior. That's what Scar was up to. So much that went on, right in front of me, and I never saw it." The man stared blankly into his wine. "If I'd known then...could I have done something? Changed things? Why didn't I see it?" He caught himself, and came back to the present with an obvious effort. "Sorry," he said. "It's hard not to feel as though I should have known what had happened."

"The boys always kept things to themselves," Winry reminded him. "If they wanted to keep a secret, none of us could pry it out of them."

"Least of all me. But they had good reason; I kept enough secrets from them, in my turn. Back to Dante, though. She wanted to use Al to help her jump bodies again. But obviously, the boys defeated her, and then Ed used the stone himself, to bring Al back in his human body. And Ed was pushed through the Gate to the other world."

"That's what Rose said, yes. Or at least – we knew about Al. We never knew what had happened to Ed, till the attack from the other world just lately."

Mustang paused to sip his drink, and contemplated the dark liquid swirling gently in the glass. "Miss Rockbell..."

"What?"

"Did Rose know anything about...how Dante gained this ability in the first place? The ability to jump bodies?"

"She wasn't sure," Winry said. "All she could remember was that Dante somehow needed the help of all the people in the city, back when it was above the ground and was a living place. But when it was over, the people had all left the city."

"'Left the city'," he repeated. He set the glass down abruptly, and watched the wine slop out onto the back of his hand. It gleamed on his skin, in dark red, quivering beads, before sliding slowly down onto the table. "Is that what she told Rose? I suppose she had to tell her that's all it was," he said tautly. "I don't know how she lived with herself after what she'd done. One city – several cities -- I should know, after all -- "

"General Mustang. What are you talking about? What happened down there?" His sudden intensity unnerved her.

He took a deep breath. "I…don't think I can tell you. I'm sorry. Military matters."

"'Military matters'," she repeated incredulously. "Something that involved Ed and Al – and still involves Rose – and you've decided that I don't get to hear it? Even though I've uncovered secret 'military matters' before, and found things that helped all of you fight those creatures?" She couldn't help how her voice rose. She went on in sudden fury. "And now you're just going to use me to get information and then shoo me outside and slam the door in my face when you're done with me? Don't you think you owe me something, here?"

His head jerked back, a spasm of pain twisting his face. "Miss Rockbell – I – " He bowed his head. hands clenching together in front of him, and took a long, shaking breath.

Winry frowned, puzzled, until she suddenly realized how her outburst had sounded. "Oh!" she gasped. "No – I'm sorry. I didn't mean because of my – because of that. I only meant – I meant that I came here and told you what I knew. I just…thought that maybe you could bend the rules a little, because I tried to help. That's all." Again she found her fingers twisting and twisting the shoulder strap. With a grimace she shoved the purse aside. "I've been involved in this from the start, General Mustang. It's not like I'm some random person walking down the street."

The man relaxed, a visible act of will, forcing his hands to unclench. His lips curved into a faint smile and he murmured, "I see why you could keep Ed under control so well. And why Hughes liked you so much."

"Edward thought I was an awful nag."

Her forlorn remark elicited a rueful chuckle. "Yes. He would think that, wouldn't he? Very well, Miss Rockbell, I'll follow his example and give in. I'll tell you what happened 400 years ago. The people who lived there didn't 'leave the city'. To make a philosopher's stone requires human lives – thousands of them. It feeds from them – the more violent the deaths, the better. Dante murdered the people of that city, to pour their souls into her philosopher's stone."

Winry's heart thudded into her throat, until she though she might choke. "But that – that's not possible!" she gasped. "It couldn't have happened that way. Because she didn't make the stone alone. Rose told me. They did it together – Dante and – and – "

"Hohenheim," Mustang supplied heavily. "Ed's and Al's father. I knew it. I knew it."

She couldn't let herself believe it. "He could never have done something like that, he just couldn't. He was their father – their mother loved him. He's a good person. You know that, you met him yourself."

"And 'good people' never do such things, do they? They never murder thousands of people – never destroy entire cities – for evil reasons. Do they? _Do they?_"

The glare of that single dark eye impaled her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't bear it – yet couldn't look away.

"My god – what am I doing?" He broke the stare almost immediately. "Miss Rockbell, I'm sorry. I'm unleashing my own demons on you, and that's unforgivable. I'm so sorry."

"I – I think I understand. Really. But...it's just so hard to believe. It's terrible."

"It is."

"But you say you already knew, somehow?"

"I had guessed. In fact, I think Hohenheim even warned me, the one time we met. He told me never to trust anyone who had lived for a very long time, and I had the feeling he was warning me against himself. I think he suspected I'd have to clean up after him one day."

She asked the logical question: "If you already knew, why did you want to talk to me, or to Rose?"

The man's bitter smile was almost painful to see. "I was hoping you could tell me I was wrong."

After that exchange, Mustang seemed to feel he had grilled Winry long enough on difficult subjects, and he steered the conversation into less fraught areas, if such things could really exist considering their history. Over their lunch (which was as delicious as he'd promised), he politely inquired about her automail work back in Risemboul, her friendships with Sciezka and Rose, and what she planned for her future. She noticed that he never once mentioned her grandmother Pinako.

They also talked, a little, about Edward and Alphonse, but by unspoken agreement they gradually changed the subject. It still hurt Winry to talk about the brothers they had now lost, possibly for good. She hadn't expected to hear the same regret in this man's voice when he spoke of them.

When lunch was over and they came out onto the street, Mustang inquired, "Where are you staying? Shall I call a car for you?"

"Oh, no, thanks. I thought I'd go see Sciezka, and see what she's doing after work."

"Then you're going to headquarters too. Would you be uncomfortable if I walked there with you?"

"No. It's fine."

For an uneasy instant she thought he might offer his arm, but he turned and began to walk, arms at his sides. Winry slung her purse over her shoulder and walked with him, positioning herself on the right, so as not to walk on his blind side. He set a relaxed pace. And far from being uncomfortable, she found herself fascinated, as he explained some of the history of the neighbourhood. He showed her the stages of building it had gone through, as it changed from an area of farmer's markets and food stalls into streets lined with houses and trees, and eventually into a mixture of homes and buildings that were mostly connected to, and supported, the people who worked at Central Headquarters.

He seemed to have done a lot of study. He pointed out several buildings of significance along the way, showing her how to tell which had been built during an older time period, and narrating the occasional story he might have heard about them.

Winry would never have gotten the impression, from her previous knowledge of him, that Roy Mustang would have any interest in this sort of thing. But he seemed really to enjoy knowing this history, as though Central were almost a living being whose growth he was watching.

He had smiled with the same delight, she suddenly recalled, while reading the menu back at the café.

By the time they reached headquarters, she was so engrossed in the history that she almost regretted the end of their walk together. As they climbed the steps to the wide portico at the building's entrance, they paused awkwardly, not quite sure how to end the occasion. If he wanted to shake hands now, she mused, she might actually be able to stomach the contact.

Instead, Mustang stuck a hand in one pocket, gazing past the stairs into the huge central parade square in front of the building. "I appreciate your meeting with me, Miss Rockbell, difficult though it was. You've been a big help. And I've been wondering...is there any chance you'll still be here, in a few weeks?"

"I could be," she answered. "Depending on why you're asking."

"My subordinates are going to have a lot of work ahead of them for the next little while, and I think I'll give them a dinner party at the end of the job, to show my appreciation. I was going to invite Gracia and Sciezka as well. And you, if you think you might enjoy it."

"I might," she said. "Let me talk to Sciezka about it, and we'll let you know." She really wasn't sure; much of her experience with Mustang's people had been rather unpleasant. But on the other hand, it might be fun to stay a little longer and spend more time with Sciezka and Gracia. And as long as she had them with her at the party, she might not feel too uncomfortable.

He hesitated, and added slowly, frowning, "I think there's one more thing I should tell you, though, so you can make your decision with full knowledge." Again he paused. "I think...you of all people have a right to know this, but..."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

He surveyed the activity in the central square: people hurrying toward the various entrances of the building, returning from lunch, bustling to meetings, carrying briefcases or folders; others strolling in a more leisurely way, jackets hanging open, enjoying the sunshine and the soft warm breeze. Mustang lowered his voice. "You have a right to know this," he repeated, "but please keep it confidential. The reason I needed to know as much as possible about the underground city is that we are going to destroy the transmutation circle at its centre, to prevent another invasion like the one we've just had. And unfortunately...that means..."

It hit her like a punch in the stomach. She could hardly breathe. "Edward – Al – there won't be any chance then. They'll never be able to come back. Will they?"

"No."

Winry hugged her arms across her chest. She'd known, really. She'd already thought they were probably gone forever. But she couldn't believe how much it hurt, to hear it made final, hear it put into irrevocable words. Especially words spoken by this man.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he whispered, gaze still fixed in the distance, "to do this to you again."

She blinked several times, trying to keep the tears from coming. It was futile, of course. She moved to stand beside him, watching the people in the square. "And I suppose if I begged you not to do this...if wouldn't matter."

He took a short, sharp breath, as though she had stabbed him in the heart. "Is that...what you want me to do?" he whispered.

For a single reeling moment, she wanted to cry, "Yes! That's what I want!" Would he do as she wished? Did he believe he owed her that much of a debt? Did she have that much power over him?

It didn't matter. Because of his debt, he'd stretched the rules as much as he could, just to talk to her about these things today. But this situation wasn't about their personal history any longer. She wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. "No," she sighed. "Because the flying machines could come back, and the whole world could be in danger. And you can't put the whole world in danger just in case Ed and Al might try to return some day."

Mustang dug a handkerchief from a pocket and passed it over without looking at her. He murmured, "And so you see how we in the military always manage to have a good reason for every destructive thing we do."

Winry took the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes for a moment. Then she swallowed around the grief in her throat, and said briskly, "Except that this time, it's the right thing to do. Because this time, you're trying to save everybody. And no one will die. Right?"

He turned to face her, and again she saw his face soften, in much the same way as when he'd watched Lieutenant Hawkeye leave the café. He answered solemnly, "I swear to you that no one – whether on the other side of the Gate or walking on the face of this world – no one will die this time."

"Then you have to do it," Winry nodded. "And you know Edward and Alphonse would agree."

"Thank you for understanding. It means...more to me than you can imagine." The man lifted his head and squared his shoulders. Again his gaze swept across the expanse of the parade square, and he allowed himself another smile. "The world is a contentious place, and we could all do much better. But it really is worth preserving, with all its flaws. Even if, sometimes, the cost turns out to be steep."

"I...guess I understand that. I suppose that's what Ed's life showed me. And mister Hughes."

"Yes. Edward and Maes are the best examples we could possibly follow. But now, Miss Rockbell," his lips curved slightly, "I think Sciezka is waiting for you. And Lieutenant Hawkeye will be needing assurances from me that we've both survived our lunch together."

Despite herself, Winry smiled a little in response. "I'm glad I could help. I really am. Thank you for lunch. And...good luck, General Mustang."

"Thank you. Give my greetings to Sciezka. Good-bye, Miss Rockbell." Mustang bowed, then turned on his heel and strode away.

When she reached Sciezka's office, Winry found Vato Falman there. He had, apparently, just been passing by and stopped in to say hello, and although he lingered for a few minutes, he finally seemed to recognize that she wanted to speak to Sciezka alone. Even as he took his leave and slipped out the door, Winry was turning to her friend, ready to recount the story of her lunch with General Mustang.

But, "What's that in your hand?" Sciezka interrupted, almost before she began.

"Oh no, I forgot to give it back to him." Winry set Mustang's handkerchief on Sziezka's desk and smoothed it out. Monogrammed and everything: _R.M._

"Winry. Did he make you cry?" Sciezka demanded. "Because general or not, if he made you cry, I'll march over to his office and give him a piece of my mind. I've done it before, and I'm not afraid to do it again – "

"It's okay, don't worry about it," Winry assured her, hands up, laughing at her friend's staunch support. "He did, but it was about something I agreed with. So I'm okay. And I guess I'll give this back to him at the dinner party. If I go. Which I might not..."

"Party?" her friend exclaimed. "What are you talking about? Why would you be going to a party, of all things, with General Mustang? And you still aren't telling me why you were crying."

Winry hesitated. She had agreed to keep all the information confidential, but...this was Sciezka. And the general surely knew that if he told Winry, Sciezka would eventually find out. She'd probably find out even if Winry kept her mouth shut. If she thought about it, she actually didn't think he'd mind. Sziezka had been as deeply involved as she had.

"All right," she said, plopping herself into the chair across the desk from her friend. "Here's what happened. When Lieutenant Hawkeye came to pick me up..."

Falman found Havoc later, waylaying him in a hallway. After hearing the report of everything the man had learned while eavesdropping through the not-quite-closed office door, Havoc mused on the information in silence for a long time, twirling his cigarette in and out between his fingers. "You know," he said at last, "I think we should keep this between us for the time being. If Mustang isn't telling us yet, about what happened to the dead city, there's probably a good reason. Let's wait and see what he's up to, before we let on that we know."

"What should I tell the others, then?"

"I don't know, think of something. You can say they spent the whole lunch talking about Ed and Al. Tell them he gave her a history lesson about the buildings in Central. They'll go crazy trying to figure out why he wanted to meet Miss Rockbell, just to tell her that. But Falman – "

"Yes sir?"

"Don't tell them he made her cry. Neither of them needs that sort of thing made public. Got it?"

Havoc headed back to his desk, musing over what he'd learned. Mustang might be more open about some things, but he obviously hadn't stopped keeping certain secrets. They knew it was important to destroy the transmutation circle on this side as well as the other side of the Gate, but none of them had a clue about these other details, except probably Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong.

How soon would the two men let the rest of them know what had really happened to all the people in the buried city? Or was this going to be another dirty little secret the alchemists kept to themselves? Alchemy had been at the root of most of the sorrows in the country, the last few years. Would the ramifications ever come to an end?

And that whole business about the general's past with Winry Rockbell. Havoc knew they'd dealt with some of it two years ago, in Risemboul, but it sounded like they'd hashed it out a little more today. He wondered if Mustang could ever really make peace with the girl, and what it might take to do it.

He noticed that he was still fiddling with the cigarette, and grimaced, jamming it into his mouth. One of these days he'd have to quit these things. But not today.


	3. Hauntings and Beginnings

**While Roaming Fool wasn't able to beta this chapter, it still owes vast amounts to her previous advice and counsel (and thanks also, to some comments way in the beginning, by Heathenesque). My writing, I think, has improved immeasurably thanks to Roaming Fool's suggestions.**

_Sorry this is moving (and posting!) more slowly than I'd wish. There are some adjustments that I need to make in several chapters, so I have to exercise care to make sure the changes are consistent throughout. (So…if you notice any odd things jutting out somewhere, please let me know!)_

**Chapter 3 – Hauntings and Beginnings**

In later years, the scene always stood out in Havoc's memory, as though it had been etched there with a hot blade. It came back to him at unexpected moments, as sharp and clear as it had been on the morning after the lunch with Winry, when Roy Mustang took three of his subordinates back into the underground cavern.

Havoc would merely need to catch a glimmer of light from the corner of his eye, and he was instantly transported back, to see again the shimmering curtain of sunlight slanting through the gaping hole in the roof above, illuminating one edge of the transmutation circle and flattening the buildings behind until they looked like the two-dimensional backdrop on a theatre stage. He would see the thousands of dust motes, a multitude of tiny inanimate fireflies, sparkling in the light and casting an illusion of life across the centre of the city, while the buildings tilted dizzily above as though bending on tiptoe to spy on the intruders. The warm, dry air would envelope him again, descending upon him like a heavy cloak. And overlaying everything, weaving all the impressions together, he could still hear Roy Mustang's voice, muted and inflectionless in the dead air, describing exactly what had happened to the city 400 years ago, the horror of the details only deepened by the calm precision with which they were revealed.

Mustang's audience was small: Hawkeye, Havoc, and Armstrong. But they stood transfixed before him as he related the facts, the lines of the array spreading outward beneath their feet. Firefly sparks dotted the air above Mustang's head, while sometimes, just on the periphery of vision, Havoc thought he caught flashes along the lines of the circle, as though it were responding to the general's descriptions. More than once, he had to reach up to smooth the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to smooth away the prickling.

When Mustang had finished his clipped recitation, the others digested the information for a moment in silence until, "I suspected it was so," Armstrong groaned at last.

Hawkeye frowned, eyeing in her turn the designs under her feet. "That's terrible," she murmured. "All of those lives. General – do you think Edward knew what his father had done?"

"Not when we met Hohenheim in Risemboul, I'm sure of it," Mustang replied. "But I'm sure Ed knew by the time he went through the Gate the first time."

"It must have devastated him," she said.

"But he kept fighting anyway," he answered. "And now it's our job to destroy the array, and make sure nothing like it can ever be created again."

"Does this make it harder to destroy?" Havoc wondered. "Is that why you two alchemists reacted so strongly to it when we first came here?"

"We could sense the death and the pain," Armstrong murmured, haunted eyes scanning the lines of the circle.

Mustang nodded. "And this does make it harder. We'll have to blast the circle apart, as deeply as we can possibly go. It won't be enough to explode the surface layer; we have to disrupt it all the way down. Which is why I'm bringing in the munitions people. You've gotten in touch with them, Havoc?"

"Yes, Major Cash should be waiting in the office when we get back, sir."

Hawkeye asked, "Then Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong can't destroy the circle that deeply himself? Even with his stone alchemy? " She looked from Mustang to Armstrong, while the alchemists regarded each other soberly.

"No," Armstrong shook his head. "The corruption is deeper than I can reach."

"What I think we'll do," Mustang explained, waving a hand toward the top levels of the city, "is set up rings of explosives along the edges, near the cavern roof, and more rings moving progressively inward. Those explosions will disrupt and crack the ground, and build a pressure wave. As it gets close to the centre, I'll set off the final ring here in the circle itself, to augment the inward-moving explosions. The combination of all these forces should break the surface and drive the blast downward, to shatter the power of the array as deep as it goes."

Havoc whistled. "That's quite the scheme, boss. Just one little thing: won't it bring all of Central crashing down with it?"

"That's where Armstrong really comes in," Mustang smiled. "It's his job to see that the cavern ceiling," again waving a hand upward, "is reinforced so strongly that nothing can bring it down. I may start the fireworks here, but he's going to have the worst of the workload up there. Because we also need to seal that hole in the roof, and make it strong enough to withstand the explosions too."

Hawkeye drew the obvious conclusion. "And that's why you needed to know which parts of Central sit directly above this cavern. And why you're planning evacuations."

"Exactly." The general swept his gaze around the city yet again. "Now," he resumed briskly, "I need the two of you, Hawkeye and Havoc, to go up a few of these streets and get some idea where we can set Breda and the munitions people to work. We'll divide the city into as many sections as we have teams, and have them start placing the rings of explosives. In the meantime, Armstrong and I will analyze how to direct the explosive force in toward the array."

The four of them began to spread out. Havoc made for one of the main roads leading out of the central square, while behind him, Hawkeye walked across the transmutation circle toward the part of the city beneath the gaping hole in the roof.

Mustang called sharply, "Hawkeye, not that way, we don't know if it's safe from falling debris!"

"I'll be careful, sir," the woman responded, not even looking back, continuing exactly as she had been.

Havoc curiously watched Mustang watching her as she stepped gingerly over scattered rocks and made her cautious way around piles of rubble. The lieutenant was right to investigate that area: they might have to clear away at least part of the wreckage, to allow work teams to access the higher levels over there. So someone had to get an idea of the lie of the land, like it or not. For a moment, Havoc considered volunteering to go in her place, but upon a fleeting vision of Hawkeye pointing a gun at his face, he hastily turned away. He knew better. She was entitled to take the same risks as anyone else in the company, and Mustang knew that as well as he did.

Pursuing his own search instead, he began to climb one of the cobblestoned roads on his own side of the city. Almost immediately the buildings to either side of the road blocked most of the light from the gash in the roof, and shadow coalesced around him, gathering in crevices and corners like clouds of dark dust. His footfalls, too, seemed to absorb into the heavy air and collect with the shadows in the black corners. High, rectangular shapes of formless grey loomed all about him, only the black window squares breaking the monotony, gaping at him like gouged out eyes. But eventually, the vague silvery light that seemed to emanate naturally from the rock in the cavern roof began to penetrate the shadows, so he could see well enough that at least he wasn't in danger of stumbling.

As he strode up the street radiating from the centre, the tilt of the structures along the road gave them an almost ludicrous cast, as though they all stood on one leg, pitching sideways, ready to tip over. But when he turned down a side street, the buildings on the lower side seemed to lean back as though threatened by those on the other side, tilting toward them at a menacing angle.

More than once, Havoc had to make himself lower the shoulder facing the higher side of the street; it kept hunching up as though anticipating a blow.

He wrenched his mind to the assignment he'd been given, to find clear avenues along which the huge rings of explosives could be set. He began to make mental note of details that could be important, such as the fact that despite the way the walls of this cavernous bowl now curved, the roads continued in their original courses without cracking, and the houses and other edifices seemed to be anchored securely despite their incline toward the centre square.

He knew Armstrong had already tested a few of them to be sure they were anchored securely and weren't about to collapse on top of anyone. But Havoc began to wonder if the preservation of the buildings went deeper than even Armstrong had thought to check. Maybe the same alchemic force that had pulled this nameless place down here and anchored the buildings had changed the very nature of the stone and brick, to preserve them intact amidst forces that otherwise would have broken them. If that had been the case four centuries ago, he wondered if the city could be broken by simple explosives today.

Mustang and Armstrong would probably consider that and deal with it, but he'd still better ask when he rejoined them, just in case.

He was surprised at how warm it was down here, so warm that he was almost tempted to loosen the top buttons of his jacket and shirt. For some reason, probably from imagining damp caves elsewhere, he'd expected this place to be cold. He already knew how dry it was, from his first visit. But whether standing at the bottom, or climbing almost to the top of the bowl, the temperature in the cavern remained uniformly warm and liveable. He grimaced at the terrible irony.

Silence enveloped him as he walked, instantly dulling the scuff of his feet on the cobblestones. He zigzagged as he scouted, heading straight up a main road for a while, then turning into a side street for a couple of blocks, and then turning back up another main road, and so on. The climbing roads were wider, often with central boulevards where, he imagined, trees had probably once grown. He even found evidence of a small park as he stepped onto the packed dirt surface of one of these boulevards and stopped in front of what could only have been a park bench. A metal frame and legs supported ornately-worked metal arm rests and wooden slats crossing the seat and back.

Havoc touched a light finger to one of the slats on the seat, and as though he had upset a precarious balance, all the wood began to crumble at once with a sighing hiss, dissolving swiftly into powder, raising a cloud of grey dust that sent him staggering backward, coughing. As he turned away, waving a hand in front of his face, he noticed a strip of dirt circling the edges of the boulevard, more loosely packed than the dirt in the centre. There had been a flower bed along the edge of this park, or perhaps a low hedge. And in another loosely packed circular area, at last he could see a few small, jagged spikes jutting up in the middle: the remnants of tree roots. For a bizarre instant, he wanted to dig at the roots with the toe of his boot, hunting for the smell of living soil, the smell of _anything_ in this sterile, dry place.

He backed off of the boulevard, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his face. Glancing back, he saw the dust cloud slowly drifting toward the next street opening. So there was some movement of air in here after all, albeit very gradual movement. Probably the hole in the roof, he surmised. He gulped a couple of huge breaths, in a fruitless search for fresh air, but gradually took control of his breathing and calmed his lungs enough to stop the catch in his throat. He tried to spit out the dust, but it had made his mouth dry and he couldn't manage it. Instead he was left with a musky taste in his mouth, and a brief heaviness in his chest.

All right, back to the business at hand. This street was clearly residential. Most of the houses had small patches of dirt in front where flowers or grass had probably grown, and many homes boasted the remnants of porches opening onto walkways along the street. On impulse, Havoc stepped into an ancient flower bed, digging in a pocket for his matches. He lit one and leaned into a window, holding up the tiny light to see what he might see.

At first, all he saw were vague piles of rubble in the darkness, scattered throughout the room, mostly along the walls. But a second match revealed a grime-covered fireplace in one wall, metal implements still preserved intact in a stand beside the hearth. In the wall across from it was a doorway, obviously leading into the front hall of the house. There used to be doors in the entryway; he could see the hinges hanging from the frame. But the doors themselves had long ago crumbled into a pile of shards and dust in the opening.

The third match revealed more detail about the piles of material along the walls. He was looking at the remains of furniture: tables and chairs possibly, and maybe a larger upholstered chair near the fireplace. In fact, one pile was definitely a table, he finally decided. He could see, embedded in the dust heaps, a couple of metal spoons, shards of at least two broken ceramic plates, one ceramic cup with a broken handle, and the blade of a carving knife.

Havoc's throat caught again, but not from dust this time. They'd been in the middle of dinner, he thought. No time even to put away the dinner dishes, before their lives were snatched away to feed the transmutation circle.

Surely he'd seen enough. But he lit a fourth match anyway, wondering why he did so. He leaned into the room again, cupping the flame to concentrate it back in the direction of the fireplace. To reveal, tumbled on the floor in front of it...toys. The small dusty humps might have been anything, really, but he recognized them for what they were as soon as he saw the wooden toy horse lying on its side in their midst. One leg and part of a shoulder had collapsed under it, tipping it over. But its shape was still clearly visible, its remaining front leg held up and bent in the middle of a prancing step. Yet the rest of its body was blurred, almost furred, as though it, like the park bench, was really just a pile of dust waiting for a final disintegration.

Havoc dropped the match and jerked away from the window, pressing his back against the wall beside it, trembling hands flattened on the brick facade as though to keep him from collapsing. Why had he looked, dammit? Children. There'd been _children_ in this house!

God damn Hohenheim and that lady pal of his to the lowest, hottest hell.

And Edward...oh god, _Ed_.

Swallowing around the lump of horror and grief in his throat, Havoc blinked away his sudden tears and forced himself to take a deep, scraping breath of the heavy air. It was one thing to know, in theory, what had happened down here. But it was another thing altogether to look in a window and see the tragic consequences on display, so many centuries later.

No wonder the two alchemists had reacted the way they did. His heart constricting, he remembered Roy's reaction when the man had realized, retching and shaking, what abomination had been committed in this place.

Of course he would take all this on himself, take responsibility for it. Havoc had known him in Ishbal, and in the years since. Two alchemists had done this terrible thing – of course he would take it upon his own shoulders.

But one thing he would not do, Havoc decided, jaw setting, was look into one of these windows. He'd see to that, if he had to wrestle the man to the ground and risk being fried for it. Enough was enough. There was only so much one man should be required to bear, to atone for.

Havoc pushed himself away from the wall, briskly swiping the back of a hand across his eyes. Stupid thing to do, looking in there. He had a job to do, and he was slacking. Time to get back to it. He strode out into the street and made himself go on, resolutely avoiding looking too closely at any one building.

This was a long street, extending as far ahead as he could see. In fact, it would probably be a good place for laying one of the rings of explosives. When he came to another junction, between horizontal and vertical streets, he realized that he was about a third of the way up the cavern bowl. Yes, this was almost certainly a good location for an explosive ring.

What they really needed, he decided, was a group of surveyors to make a rudimentary map of the whole city. He'd requisition the people as soon as he got back to the office. It was handy that the general's crew had virtually been given carte blanche, to get the job done.

Occasionally, when he crossed the main roads that climbed up the curve of the city, Havoc caught a glimpse of the transmutation circle, where the two alchemists concentrated their examination. At one point he saw Armstrong investigating near the circle's outer edge, and on other occasions he saw Mustang kneeling inside it, gathering information in his own way. Even at a distance, Havoc could see the brief flare of alchemical reactions triggered and then cut short.

Gradually he worked his way back down, toward the main square, to rendezvous with the two of them. He couldn't see Hawkeye; she didn't seem to have returned from her explorations yet. But as he approached a cluster of buildings skirting the circle, he saw Mustang and Armstrong standing together near its closest edge. They appeared to be engrossed in heated and emphatic discussion. Even before he got close enough to hear any words, the sound of arguing voices carried up the road toward him with astonishing clarity, given the way sound usually fell so flat in the cavern. Come to think of it, it did seem that you could hear things a lot better down here, once you got close to the bottom.

He wondered if he should join the two other men and interrupt, and risk getting his head bitten off, or if it would be better just to walk away until they calmed down. Unfortunately, the street really did seem to funnel the sound of their voices upward, so unless he wanted to head back up the bowl for several blocks, he was going to overhear, now, whether he walked away or not. Still, he could use a break to calm his jangled nerves. So he finally settled into a shadowed doorway and lit a cigarette, resigned to hearing everything. Where they stood, a couple of houses down from him, the sunlight from above revealed their faces clearly: Armstrong's brooding and troubled, and Mustang's deceptively mild, yet betrayed by the tension along his jaw.

"Roy," Armstrong urged, carrying on with the argument, "you must see that it makes more sense for me to be at the centre when the time comes. I am much more able to shatter the stones of the array than you."

"Maybe you are. But you'll be needed even more aboveground."

"Surely not, if we do our reinforcing work properly – "

"And what if we miss something?" Mustang demanded. "We'll do our best to plug every hole and strengthen the ground, but you know something might still give under the pressure. And then what? What could the Flame Alchemist do, if the ground starts crumbling under a building? Nothing but watch it collapse."

"There will be other stone alchemists. I've been assured that the two of them – "

"The two of them have been certified for less than a year. Their work has been very good so far, but I will not have the fate of this city placed on the shoulders of two people so young and inexperienced. Alex, think – remember what happened to us, when we were pushed so hard, so young."

"This is nothing like Ishbal," Armstrong said.

"No? If the city begins to collapse and they can't stop it – do you think they'll be able to make that distinction? Or would their failure haunt them the rest of their lives?"

Havoc leaned his head back against the wall and breathed out a long stream of smoke, savoring the acrid taste in his mouth and the tart aroma of the burnt tobacco.

And there it was again, as always.

Ishbal.

The two alchemists paced the lines of the array, back and forth, in tense silence. General Mustang appeared as relaxed as ever, one hand in a pocket as he walked, but anyone who knew him well would have been able to detect the slightest extra force of his boots as they came down on the paving stones.

Havoc shook his head, taking another drag.

"Roy," Armstrong said, apparently determined to try again. "For you to do the work here below – it simply cannot be allowed. The government – "

"The government," his companion said tightly, "requires the closure of this portal, to make the country safe, and the rest of the world with it. They gave me complete control of how it gets done."

"But if they fully understood the extent of the plan – "

"I'm sending them regular reports, and will continue to do so."

"And you intend to tell them the details – every detail?" Armstrong seemed to be trying to make a specific point, though Havoc couldn't begin to guess what it was.

Mustang stopped walking and turned to face his companion, smiling his most casual – most untrustworthy – smile. "Why yes," he said. "They'll be fully aware. They'll know where you and I will both be stationed for the final blast."

Armstrong searched his face, as though hunting for a sign of duplicity. "I'm not sure I should believe you. And I can't agree with what you propose."

"Do I have to pull rank?" The general's smile vanished, his dark eyes narrowing. "I will, if necessary. Nothing – and I mean nothing – can be allowed to get in the way of finishing this, as quickly as possible."

"You know I don't dispute that it needs to be done, and quickly. Be reasonable, Roy. All I am saying is that you don't need to do this, to make up for what happened in Ishbal."

"And I could say the same to you," the other snapped.

They faced each other at a bristling stalemate. Finally, Mustang sighed. "I'm not doing this because of Ishbal. I mean that, Alex. I'm doing it because this is the only way we can get this done and keep the city from collapsing. You have to be above ground to make sure of that, and I have to be below to set the reactions in play. There is no other arrangement that makes sense. You know that. Please don't fight me on this, when you know I'm right."

Armstrong crossed his arms and bowed his head, as though meditating or worrying. "Yes, of course you're right, Roy. I just wish..."

"I know. So do I, believe it or not. But that's irrelevant, and you know that too. So let's move on, and start planning."

A few minutes later, they turned the conversation to other things as Hawkeye rejoined them. Havoc stubbed out his cigarette and casually strolled down into the square as though he'd only just arrived. He gave a brief report of what he'd seen and what he concluded, then listened as Hawkeye made a similar report. It sounded like the long street he'd found for laying a ring of explosives went halfway around the city, since Hawkeye seemed to be describing the same street at about the same level.

Of what the two alchemists had discovered in their own investigations, they reported almost nothing. And Havoc didn't say a word about the window, or the toys.

Deciding they'd done as much as they needed to in the cavern for now, Mustang led them back up the winding path toward the steep stairway and the old religious sanctuary aboveground.

But along the way, he slowed down, allowing both Armstrong and Hawkeye to pass him, and fell into step with Havoc. "You might consider giving up smoking those things, Jean," he commented quietly.

"My cigarettes? Why?"

"Well, they may not be very healthy. And," the other man added, flashing his characteristic sideways smile, "the smell of smoke sometimes carries just as far as the sound of voices." And he increased his pace to catch up with Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong.

Yep. There were air currents down here after all. Dammit.

When the four of them returned to the large office suite that had been assigned to Mustang's group, they found that the group now included three more people: the head of the munitions side of the project and the two alchemists, a man and a woman, whom Armstrong had mentioned back in the cavern. All three had arrived just a few minutes ago, and while the young alchemists relaxed at Breda's desk, chatting with Breda and Falman, the other man was already bent over a table in the middle of the room, where Fuery had laid out some maps of Central.

It was the munitions man who glanced over his shoulder as Mustang and his party arrived, and who immediately snapped to attention with a crisp salute. "General Mustang," he said. "Major Reg Cash reporting." His demeanour was perfect, his stocky form correctly at attention. But the direct grey eyes, under a short fall of sandy hair, regarded his new superior officer with shrewd assessment.

Mustang returned the salute, then smiled. "Nice to meet you, Major, and please relax. We don't stand too much on ceremony around here, except when somebody makes us."

"Reg, good to see you," Havoc said with a laconic salute of his own. He had asked for the man specifically, having seen his work from time to time during the Ishbal campaign and since. They needed a munitions expert, and when Havoc had learned that Reg Cash was currently stationed in Central, there had been no question about who they'd ask for. The guy was simply the best in the field.

"I see you're already getting acquainted with our little problem," Mustang remarked, indicating the maps on the table.

"Yes. Master Sergeant Fuery was giving me a quick summary," Cash nodded. "But I'll need to go underground for a look as soon as possible."

"Yes you will. I'll send Hawkeye and Havoc back down with you and Breda in a few minutes, so you can get started. Glad to have you with us. I think you're about to meet the challenge of your life, Major. But first," Mustang turned toward Breda's desk, where the others waited their turn, "I understand that we're welcoming more newcomers to the group."

The two young people were a stark contrast to Major Cash's military correctness. While the lanky young man was also in uniform, his jacket hung open and he lounged in Breda's chair with a long leg draped over one of its arms, foot swinging. Even his shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a fine silver chain around his neck, from which hung a clear, shimmering crystal. He grinned at General Mustang, his deep blue eyes sparkling with good humour, and waved a couple of fingers at his forehead in a gesture that was apparently meant as a salute. He flicked a lock of jet black hair out of his eyes and said, "Hi there, general."

By further contrast, the short young woman standing beside the chair with a hand on her companion's shoulder was a picture of reserve and cool appraisal. She had clad her slight form all in black, a short skirt and long-sleeved sweater over tight leggings and high boots. Her black hair was probably about shoulder length, but had been pulled severely back from her face and confined behind her head with a clip. The clip, too, was black. Her only concession to colour was a small brooch on one shoulder, dominated by a glittering, deep red stone. Even the glasses through which she regarded the general were framed in black.

She inspected Mustang for a moment, head to foot, taking in everything from his polished boots to the eyepatch and the unruly hair. "So you're General Mustang," she said. "I'm Laura Veber – Lightstone Alchemist. This is my fiancé, Lance Delacoeur. Heartstone Alchemist." Lance, still seated, repeated unnecessarily, "Hi there."

Havoc shared a glance with Hawkeye behind their superior's back. She raised a slow eyebrow, and his lips twitched. The two young people could hardly be older than twenty, he thought.

"Glad to have you with us," Mustang said amiably. "I understand that this is your first assignment?"

"Yes," the young woman replied. "We were certified just before the invasion, while you were still stationed up north."

"They told us to 'do what we could' when the invasion started," Lance added cheerfully, "but we don't count that as an official assignment, because nobody really knew what they were doing. And there wasn't much we could do, anyway. Then you showed up and got rid of the invaders almost single-handedly, and we've sort of been at loose ends till now."

"Well then," said the general, "we'll certainly do something about that. This assignment is made for you."

"So you know about us?" Laura asked in surprise. "You know what we can do?"

"In general terms, yes, of course. I don't accept anyone onto my team without knowing they can do the job. But Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong has a more thorough understanding of your specialties, and he'll be guiding and overseeing your work."

As the big man bowed, Laura nodded. "Pleased to meet you." Again her fiancé flicked his fingers vaguely at his forehead.

"Welcome to the team," Armstrong rumbled. "I am honoured to work with young people of such prodigious talent. I've heard nothing but excellent reports concerning your skills."

For the briefest instant, the young woman's stiff reserve faltered and what might have been pleasure flickered in her eyes. It vanished as quickly as it had come.

Mustang went on, "You'll also be working closely with Warrant Officer Falman and Master Sergeant Fuery."

"Yes, so they've told us," Laura said. "They've already explained a bit about the job. The aboveground part, at least." She glanced curiously at Cash. "But I'm not sure what you do, exactly. Are you an alchemist as well?"

He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Hardly. I don't have a spark of that kind of skill, I'm afraid."

"Major Cash," Mustang put in, "is our munitions man." He drawled, "After you two glue things together, he'll be blowing things apart. There's a kind of symmetry to it, don't you think?"

"Not really," the girl replied coolly. "It sounds like a waste of effort to me. And if you're thinking 'equivalent exchange', general, I don't think that's what the great alchemists mean by it."

It was Havoc's turn to raise an eyebrow – both eyebrows, in fact – at Hawkeye behind the boss's back. An inexperienced twenty-year old, trying to lecture the Flame Alchemist about equivalent exchange? Where had they seen _that_ sort of thing before? He wondered if she had any idea what dangerous ground she was treading. And whether she had nearly the strong will or the thick skin that Fullmetal had had.

But the Flame seemed to be in a magnanimous mood today. He merely lowered his gaze, smiling that deceptively mild smile of his. "Equivalent exchange is vastly more complex than you suspect, Miss Veber. I'd like to see you talk to Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong about it again in, oh, ten years or so. In the meantime," he altered course abruptly, returning to serious business, "let's have a look at the maps, everyone, shall we, now that we're all here? Fuery, tell us what you've learned so far."

As everyone gathered around the table, even Lance Delacoeur finally unfurling himself from Breda's chair, Fuery spread his hands flat on the map. "We haven't had much time," he began, "but we've already found two other small entrances, aside from the two we knew about, that we're going to have to get sealed."

Hawkeye remarked thoughtfully, "Which means there could be several more, if you've already found two more so soon."

"Where is the entrance you've been using? The main entrance?" asked Cash.

"Here." Fuery put his finger on the block where the old religious sanctuary was located.

"That's not far from here," Cash mused. "But you said there was another one you already knew about?"

"Yes," Mustang nodded. "And it's even closer. There's a shaft in this very building, that goes straight down into a large mansion or palace in the underground city. There was an elevator until recently, but it's been destroyed."

"Here?" Cash repeated. "In Central headquarters itself? Are you sure, general? I know this place pretty well, and I can't think of any corner where something of that nature could be hidden."

"No? Have you ever been inside the Fuhrer's former office?" Mustang smiled.

The other stared at him for a long moment. "Are you serious?" he murmured at last. "Right in his office. Did...Bradley know about it?"

"Most certainly he did."

Havoc held his breath as the two men regarded each other, Cash staring with parted lips as though the questions were about to force their way out, and Mustang seemingly calm, but tension stiffening the lines of his body as he awaited the inevitable. Since his dramatic return to Central, no one had yet dared to ask openly. But Reg Cash had a reputation for straight-talking.

Then the man's eyes widened as another thought abruptly intruded, driving everything else out. "So...we're sitting right on top of the cavern?"

"Almost at the centre, as far as I can guess."

Cash quickly turned back to the map, leaning on the table with clenched fists. They could see his eyes skimming across the paper, block after block, registering just how many administrative buildings, homes, schools, and shops there were in the vicinity of Central headquarters. "You won't just need to seal those exits, then," he muttered, half to himself. "You'll need to reinforce the ground itself. How strongly," he added, peering sharply up at Mustang, "depends on how big a blast you want me to create."

"The biggest you can possibly imagine," came the quiet answer.

Cash straightened as he absorbed the idea, his sober grey eyes never leaving the general's face. "Then you must find every exit and seal it tightly. And reinforce the ground under most of this city within an inch of its life."

"All of which," Laura announced, "Lance and I can do. And we'll want to get started right away on closing that really big hole the invaders made, too."

Lance complained, "We wanted to take a walk around it yesterday, but nobody would let us get close. Every road and path was blocked."

The subtle crisis now passed, Mustang dragged his attention away from the munitions officer and focused on the alchemists. "Of course the ways were blocked," he said. "We don't know how stable the ground is – or isn't – around that gap. All we needed was for the two of you to arrive, to tell us and to do something about it. Which you will start on, first thing tomorrow."

"We would prefer," Laura informed him, "to get to work on it this afternoon, actually."

"I want you to spend this afternoon getting acquainted with the maps, and doing a little scouting with Fuery, Falman, and Armstrong. And Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong can begin working out a schedule for closing off the holes as you discover them."

"But we'd rather – "

"All in good time, Miss Veber. It's not like the 'really big hole' will disappear before you can get to it, is it?" Mustang flashed the girl one of his charming smiles, but she pursed her lips and looked away, ignoring it. "Well," he said. "I just need to have a few words with Hawkeye in my office, and then you can all get down to business."

As the general turned toward the door leading to the inner office, Cash spoke again. "General Mustang. I also strongly advise that you arrange for the city to be evacuated before we set off the explosions."

Mustang paused, glancing back. "Lieutenant Hawkeye has already begun drawing up the schedule," he said.

Again the two men regarded each other in silence, until Major Cash nodded once, turning back to the maps on the table. Havoc moved to his side and remarked, "I'm planning to requisition as many surveyors as possible, to make rough maps of the city down there."

"Good idea," Cash replied. " I can add a few people too. That will give us a better idea where to lay out the explosives."

Breda added, "It will also help us divide up and assign the teams."

As Breda, Cash, and Havoc bent back over the maps, Falman suddenly blurted, "Wait a minute. Laura, you called Lance your fiancé? But you're military, and in the same company. Isn't that sort of relationship out of bounds? How did you get around the rules?"

Havoc's head jerked up in time to see General Mustang pause in the doorway to his office, so abruptly that Hawkeye almost bumped into him.

"Easy," Laura answered, her voice decidedly smug. "We come as a package. Our alchemy works together. It's the reason we're here in the first place."

"That's right," Lance agreed. He smiled at his betrothed, and she returned the smile with a warmth she hadn't displayed to anyone else thus far. "I can't function without her, and she can't function without me. If they don't want us to be completely useless, they can't separate us. That's how the alchemy works, and it's how we work."

Again Havoc held his breath, watching the stillness on Mustang's face. But the man immediately put on his mild, sidelong smile, and pulled one of his standard diversionary moves. "By the way, Delacoeur," he remarked. "You don't have to wear the uniform while you're working on this project, since you're here more as an alchemist than a military officer, and I've given other alchemists the same sort of leeway in the past. But if you do wear the uniform, I expect it to be worn properly and treated with respect. Understood?"

And with that, he finally stepped into his office, Hawkeye following him in and closing the door.

As Lance, crestfallen, hurriedly began to button his shirt and jacket, Laura glared at the closed door, then demanded of the room in general, "So tell me. Did General Mustang kill Fuhrer Bradley like all the rumours say?"

Havoc straightened up in the midst of the stunned silence. For some reason, every eye had fallen on him, especially the narrowed, speculative gaze of Reg Cash. Just when he'd thought the danger had been averted, too.

Damn the girl!

"Laura," Lance chided, his fingers fumbling on the buttons in distress . "There's no need to make accusations just because you're upset about me. He was right about the uniform – "

"I'm not making accusations, I'm asking a question," she retorted, chin lifting defiantly. "If anyone knows the real facts, it should be these people. So? Lieutenant Havoc?"

"Look, Miss Veber," he began, shrugging apologetically, "that's not really what any of us is here for, so if you don't mind – "

"I see," she interrupted. "You're not going to tell me. You're all afraid of him, aren't you? You don't dare ask the questions or you might disappear the way Fuhrer Bradley did."

"That's not true!" Fuery burst out. "He'd never hurt any of us. Never!"

The girl cast a derisive glance at the Sergeant Major, as though the very fervency of his declaration proved it wasn't true. Breda appeared ready to burst, and Fuery's shock was about to change to anger. Havoc's own furious retort already pulsed on his lips when his eyes fell on Laura's hands, trembling at her sides. He didn't think she even realized how they were shaking.

The thought hit him like a lightning strike. There was more than one possible explanation for her defiant bravado, and the stiffness of her manner with General Mustang.

Havoc held up a hand, cutting off Fuery's shout before it began. "Laura," he said gently. "Please wait till you know us before you make any judgements. You're going to have to draw your own conclusions when it comes to the general, and that'll take some time. I can't speak for the others, but I can tell you what's true for me. I am not afraid of Roy Mustang. I believe he's the greatest man I've ever known. I'd follow him to the ends of the earth, and I would die for him if it was needed."

"So would I," said Fuery.

"Me too." Breda.

"And me." Falman.

"As would I." Armstrong, voice trembling with emotion.

Laura surveyed each one in turn, while Lance watched her anxiously, still buttoning. She said softly, "And you're not going to answer my question."

Havoc shook his head. "Sorry. No."

The girl crossed her arms, clutching her elbows. "Very well. I'll watch, and decide, and keep my mouth shut. For now." She turned away and Lance, his uniform buttoned and hands finally free, laid one of those hands on his fiancée's shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance.

Havoc looked at Reg Cash, eyebrow raised in challenge. The man regarded him silently for a long moment before returning to the maps and asking Fuery a question.

Forget a cigarette, Havoc thought to himself. What he really needed was a couple of good, stiff drinks.

Meanwhile, in the inner sanctum, Hawkeye stopped before the general's desk as he walked behind it to the wide window overlooking the central plaza. His form cut into the light, the sunshine sharply outlining his body against the brightness. She said softly to his back, "That was a close call. But I think he's going to ask eventually; he seems like that sort of man. What will you say when he does?"

Mustang did not reply, silently contemplating the square below. At last he murmured, "Do you have any idea how sick I am of lying about it?"

"I understand. But you have no choice," she reminded him firmly. "As long as there's some doubt about what happened in Bradley's wine cellar that night, nobody can act against you."

"No more than they did already," he agreed, then sighed. "And once this project is finished, I doubt it will matter any more. So I guess I'll just have to repeat the lie if he asks: I was trying to save the bastard, not kill him. And I don't know what happened to him after the fire broke out. But Cash is a good man. I hate deceiving good men, Hawkeye. I've spent my whole life doing it, and I'll end my life doing it. What a legacy."

Hawkeye searched for a satisfactory reply, but he sighed again and seemed to shake himself free of the dark thoughts, glancing back with a rueful smile across his new, oversized, highly polished desk. Which, she noted, running a couple of fingers along the smooth, cool wood, seemed to be missing the paperwork she had put there last night. "So," Mustang remarked, changing the subject. "Do you feel old?"

"Those two alchemists, you mean? They do seem to be getting younger every year," Hawkeye chuckled. "Feeling our age today, are we, general?"

He laughed. "I'm more relieved than anything else. I wouldn't be that age again for anything in the world."

"As if you're that much older," she scoffed. "Barely into your thirties."

"True. But when I remember what I was doing at about the same age they are..." He turned back to his contemplation of the world outside the window.

Hawkeye immediately recognized the tone of his voice. His early twenties. Ishbal. It was never far from his mind, no matter how long ago it had been. No wonder he sometimes found it hard to avoid dark thoughts. They seemed to be hovering around his head like vultures today.

"Still," he mused softly. "I can tell Laura and Lance are going to liven things up around here. It could almost be like old times. I'll be very interested to discover how exactly their alchemy 'works together'."

She smiled. This, too, was a familiar theme, probably the longest-running theme of his life. "You alchemists never lose your curiosity about each other's techniques and abilities, do you?"

"No." She could tell that he, too, was smiling. "We're insatiably curious. That's how we get ourselves so entangled in things we shouldn't touch. But their alchemy sounds like something entirely different. 'I can't function without her, and she can't function without me.' I wonder what that means."

"I'm sure we'll see a demonstration soon – " Hawkeye began, but he didn't notice, still following the path of his own thought.

"It certainly seems," he added, so quietly she could barely hear, "that in their case there's a way around the fraternization rules."

Hawkeye's breath caught. Another underlying theme, almost as longstanding as his love of alchemy. And one which neither of them dared allow themselves to acknowledge, and which must be diverted at all costs, if ever it drew too near the surface.

She steeled herself to interject briskly, ignoring the constriction in her chest. "I'll suggest to Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong that we should be present tomorrow when Laura and Lance begin their transmutations, so we can understand how they work together. But now I think I should get back to the others, so Havoc and I can show Major Cash what he needs to see down below. Unless you have other instructions for me, sir?"

She waited, holding her breath, for what seemed a very long time. "No, Lieutenant," he murmured at last. "I think that will be all. Please go ahead."

She walked to the door and opened it, pausing briefly, despite herself, to glance back. He had turned to watch her, and now smiled across the office at her, a warm smile of comradeship. She allowed herself an inward sigh of relief. As always, they understood each other completely. It had been the merest lapse, and no more. Returning the smile, Hawkeye stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind her.


	4. Details and Discoveries

_Thanks so much to Roaming Fool, for looking through this chapter and suggesting very valuable changes!_

_This is a bit of an "interim" chapter, but I hope it's enjoyable. Let me know what you think._

**Chapter 4 – Details and Discoveries**

Scieszka must have glanced at the big brass clock, hanging between the two western windows, ten times in the last three minutes. The warm – even stifling – afternoon sunlight inched with excruciating slowness across the floor, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the pendulum beneath the large white face, swinging in ponderous time with the slow tick-tocks of the timepiece. Judging by its current pace, the last fifteen minutes of the workday would likely take three hours to pass. Meanwhile, she actually had to shade her eyes to hide the pendulum from sight, and keep it from lulling her into a snoring puddle in the middle of the papers on her desk.

A sharp rap at her office door jarred her out of her stupor. When Jean Havoc poked his ruffled blond head around the frame, her eyes widened. "Hi there," he flashed his amiable grin. "Got a few minutes?"

She blinked. "Lieutenant Havoc. Sure. What can I do for you?" The files rustled under her arms as she leaned forward on the desk, watching him push the door open and saunter into the small room. Of all the people in General Mustang's command, none of whom she knew that well to begin with, she knew this man the least. She wasn't sure what to make of his appearance, coming so swiftly on the heels of Winry's lunch with General Mustang yesterday, and Warrant Officer Falman's unexpected visit. Brown eyes large and wary behind her glasses, she carefully clasped her hands together on the papers she'd been organizing.

He turned around a couple of times, one hand massaging the back of his neck as he gazed at the bookcases lining the walls, stuffed with books and files. He whistled appreciatively. "I'm impressed. Are these all yours?"

"Well, I use all these records in my work, if that's what you mean. My own books are mostly at home."

"They say you've got a photographic memory too. So you remember everything you read?"

"Yes...," she nodded, questioning eyes following him as he drifted around the office. A loose floor board squeaked briefly under one of his boots.

"And you understand it all?"

"Yes, but what..."

"You've got to have a pretty sharp mind for that," he mused, running a long, casual finger along the spines of some of the volumes. The faint aroma of leather and dust wafted toward her from the books.

There was a point here somewhere. She was sure of it. "Lieutenant Havoc...?" she ventured. "Is there something you actually...want?"

The man glanced over, sky blue eyes widening. "What? Oh...right. It's just, I'm impressed by your abilities. I'm more of an action guy myself, and maybe I'm a bit envious."

"I could loan you some books now and then...if you wanted?" Was this really why he had come here? To talk about her reading, and his lack of it? This must be, she thought, what it felt like to hunt for sure footing in the middle of a marsh.

Again the surprise. "I might take you up on that sometime. But what I really need right now," he told her, leaning his hands on the desk, gaze narrowing and all hesitation vanishing, "is your help in the Records department."

Finally, she thought. A patch of solid ground in the marsh. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant Havoc," she said, "but you've wasted a trip. My work straddles the Library and Investigations, and I don't have much to do with the Records de – "

"I know you don't." After all his meandering, the sudden sharp focus of his eyes disconcerted her. "We don't have time for the usual red tape. We need to sift through a lot of information very quickly, and you're the best person to help."

"All right, then, I'll do what I can." Chair scraping as she pushed it back, she glanced at the clock yet again. "Oh. It's almost quitting time. Shall I call and tell them we'll be there first thing in the morning? I'm not very senior – I wonder if they'll even let me get at the records you need – "

"Oh, they'll let you, don't worry." Havoc's grin was positively feral. "Whatever I need, they're going to give me. This is for Mustang's big project, and we pretty much get whatever we want these days."

That explained things. Winry had told her about General Mustang's plans to destroy that horrible transmutation circle in the cavern under the city. Scieszka nodded briskly. "Good, well, that'll save time, not having to get the usual permissions. We can go over when they open tomorrow, and start looking."

"Today," he contradicted. "I'm afraid it can't wait. I hope you don't have any plans for the evening."

She gaped at him. "I...I suppose I don't have any choice?" she faltered. In her experience, this always happened with Mustang's people. They just walked in and took control, and you didn't usually get to say no.

The same thought seemed to occur to the lieutenant, for he straightened up with a grimace and spread helpless hands in apology. "Look, I'm sorry if I seem to be railroading you, Scieszka, but this is urgent. I'd wait, but the boss plans to run me off my feet tomorrow. I need to find these quarries as soon as possible -- "

"Quarries?" Her eyebrows shot up. "That's what you're looking for? Quarries? As in, stone?"

"Yeah. See, the problem is – "

"Wait. Tell me on the way. Let's catch them before they lock the doors." She leapt to her feet, grabbing her office keys from a drawer.

But as she rounded the desk, Havoc caught her arm and jolted her to a halt, intense eyes fixed on her face. "This has to be hush hush till we get further along," he warned her. "And Scieszka..."

"What?" She tugged her arm free, rubbing it and eyeing him warily, wondering at his varying mood.

"Everything Winry told you yesterday? Absolutely confidential, all right? Nobody hears those details till the general gives the okay. Got it?"

Her jaw dropped. "You – you _spied_ on us? How – ? Falman. He didn't really leave when he left, did he? I wondered why he kept hanging around. Of all the dirty, rotten – you people really – "

He held up his hands, actually backing away a step. The floor board creaked again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! For what it's worth, Mustang didn't order that. We were as curious as you were, so we sent Falman over to do some digging."

Whatever hesitation she'd felt a moment ago had utterly vanished. She glared, "And I thought he was being friendly. You all seem to think you can just do whatever you want, whenever you want. Do you people believe in _laws_ at all?"

He ran a frustrated hand through his golden hair, dishevelling it even more than usual. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "we weren't trying to do anything wrong, or hurt you. We make mistakes sometimes, that's all."

"Well, it does hurt, Lieutenant Havoc – not being able to trust people you think are on your side."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes the right thing to do isn't always so clear. Even you and Winry did a bit of spying in the past when you thought it was important."

"We were spying on enemies. Winry and I aren't your enemies."

"Okay, you're right, I get it. But if it feels any better...we weren't really spying on you. We were spying on Roy. We thought he was keeping secrets again, and...," for a fleeting moment Scieszka saw a shadow lurking in the lieutenant's eyes, "...when he does that, it means he's trying to spare us, and he usually suffers for it." He blinked the shadow away and asked, "But now that you know what really happened down in that dead city...don't you think it's wise not to tell anyone?"

She wasn't quite ready to give up her irritation, even if she could see his point. "Yes," she agreed. "Winry and I had already decided that. But you never even thought about asking, did you? You just came in and started giving orders." She rubbed her arm again, wondering if there was going to be a bruise.

Havoc regarded her for a moment, before his lips twitched. "Well," came the laconic reply, "I do outrank you, so I can sort of do that."

Her sense of humour always got the better of her. Before she knew it, she giggled despite herself. "Oh, all right. But just remember, lieutenant. Try talking nice to people, before you barge in and order them around. It gets better results."

"Right. I'll remember," he grinned. He sketched a deep, formal bow. "Meanwhile, Miss Scieszka, may I humbly beg your urgent assistance in the Records department? You'd be doing me a great service." Maintaining the stiff pose, he peered at her from under his eyebrows. "Is that better?"

She jangled her keys at him. "I was already on the way before you interrupted. Sir."

He laughed, straightening, and motioned her to precede him out the door into the cooler air of the third floor hallway. Then as she locked the door behind them, and they began the long walk to the stairwell, he described exactly why he needed to find, of all things, the locations of nearby rock quarries.

It seemed that General Mustang's crew had recruited a couple of stone alchemists to repair the hole the invading ships had created when they burst from the underground cavern. However skilled these alchemists might be, though, they couldn't create new rock from thin air. But it would be too hard to drag any rubble above ground for the repairs.

"Some of the boulders down there are huge," Havoc explained. "I mean, really huge, the size of houses. And it's just not practical to bring any rock up here, whatever its size, because the only way to get in and out is a long stairway. So I'll need a large supply of raw stone from somewhere else, fast."

They started down the wide stairwell, footsteps echoing in the warm, dappled space. Light slanted through the high windows in the outer wall as the sun continued its gradual descent outside. Whenever Scieszka tried to look up at the lieutenant, loping down the stairs beside her, the sunlight blazed into her eyes. So she kept her head down, hopping from one marble stair to another, running her hand along the smooth, cool wooden rail, as her mind became more and more engaged and her energy level rose.

She had already drawn some conclusions. "I see why you need more than one quarry. That's going to take a lot of stone. And you're also going to need an awful lot of trucks to bring it here."

"I know," he agreed gloomily. "It's a logistical nightmare, and Mustang's in a hurry. Hawkeye's going to have the same problem when she starts organizing the evacuations."

"Well," Scieszka told him perhaps more smugly than she intended, "I can help with that too. We can go through the records of all the vehicles owned by the military, and requisition them. And I know where to find the records of civilian vehicles. I don't think we'll have any trouble finding enough trucks; it's just a matter of getting hold of and organizing them once we find them."

They arrived at ground level and Havoc opened the door, frowning thoughtfully at her. They started along the flower-lined walk to the records building next door, one side of the huge central plaza visible past a long green lawn to their left, between the buildings. Havoc maintained silence for a long time, until Scieszka glanced curiously at him. He returned the look, and wondered, "If I asked that you be seconded to the general's command until this whole business is over, would you forgive us and agree to it?"

She realized, wide-eyed, that he was actually giving her a choice this time. If she said no, she'd probably still find herself interrupted at a moment's notice and dragged off to help. But the lieutenant appeared to be trying to give her as much choice as he could, under the circumstances.

And really...the whole project already had her mind racing of its own accord, plotting the most efficient way to organize things. And she was already using the word 'we'...

"Will it make a difference," Havoc added, misinterpreting her delay, "if I promise that you'll only have to deal with me and Hawkeye, and won't have much contact with the general?"

"General Mustang?" she asked. "Why wouldn't I want contact with him?"

"Well," he shrugged awkwardly, "Winry's your friend, and I know she still gets uncomfortable because of...things. So I just wondered..."

"I'm fine with the general, Lieutenant Havoc, so that's no problem. And Winry's getting better. We talked it over last night, and she decided to stay around Central for a while, and go to that party General Mustang talked about, for the end of your project. He invited us, you know."

"Did he?" the man raised his eyebrows. "He didn't mention that. Well good, I'm glad you'll be there. More young ladies to dance with," he added, and grinned at her giddy laugh. But his smile vanished as he asked again, anxiously, "So what do you think? Will you join us for the work too?"

"Of course I will, lieutenant. It's just the sort of thing I'm good at."

With that, they arrived at the side door of the Records building. It led them down a dark, narrow corridor opening into the main two-storey lobby overlooked by an iron-railed balcony on three sides. As she walked with Havoc across the cool marble floor, Scieszka reflected that there were obviously marble quarries _somewhere_ in the country. But the alchemists wouldn't need rock that was quite so precious.

Below the central balcony, a wide arched entrance led into an anteroom lined with leather chairs and small tables, with a windowed counter in the far wall where visitors handed their records requests to presiding clerks. Beside the window, a door opened into the inner sanctum of the records department. Locked, Scieszka was sure, from the inside. Already she could sense the wonderful combined aroma of paper, ink, wood, and metal that constituted a centre full of records and storage materials. Probably only another bookish person could love the smell the way she did.

She watched Havoc lean over the counter and produce various credentials from an inside pocket. A slight, brown-haired young man peered carefully at the papers through thick glasses, then cast a sceptical eye at the lieutenant and called over his shoulder, "Mrs. Watt, I think you'll need to deal with this request yourself."

His supervisor immediately strode toward them from a chasm between two massive shelving units. Scieszka had seen the tall, buxom head of Central Records a few times before, at meetings involving the organization of Investigations files. But she hardly expected Mrs. Watt to have noticed her, a lowly Private taking notes while the higher-ups made executive decisions. Indeed, the woman barely glanced at her before taking the papers from her subordinate and scanning them quickly. Light glinted from a couple of stray grey hairs as her head lifted again.

She folded up the papers with a brisk snap, handing them back to Havoc. "This is not standard procedure," she informed him, brown eyes distant and unimpressed, barely acknowledging his existence. "There are proper channels for rush requests, and we expect them to be followed."

He tapped the papers against his chin, remarking, "I guess I don't rank high enough to override the usual form-filling, after all. But don't worry, I'm sure the Flame Alchemist – I mean General Mustang, my boss – will be happy to drop by in the morning and," he smiled that feral smile again, "persuade you."

Mrs. Watt froze like a rabbit in the headlights. Havoc maintained the smile. Scieszka briefly entertained a burst of pity.

The woman cautiously licked her lips. "Roy Mustang. The..."

"The Flame Alchemist, yes," Havoc supplied. "You know. The guy who blew up all the invaders a few weeks ago. And some buildings and streets. And even a few cities, back in the day." He smoothed the bundle of papers, thoughtfully, between two fingers. "Guy sure has a temper, when you think of it..."

"But still," she faltered, composure visibly cracking, "there are procedures..."

He leaned one elbow on the counter, bending forward. "He's trying to save the world, Mrs. Watt. Who knows when the invaders will try to come back? The question is whether history decides you helped him – or helped them."

Uh oh, Scieszka thought. He overplayed that one. Mrs. Watt drew herself up to her full, imposing height, composure regained and her gaze positively emanating frost. "Young man," she said. "Do not insult my intelligence or try to blackmail me. I'm well aware of General Mustang's record and authority. I will bend the rules for this special case. But I will not tolerate disrespect or attempts at manipulation. Is that clear?"

Different deer, different headlights. Finally, "Yes, Ma'am," Havoc agreed meekly. "Sorry. It's just so important, I...got a little enthusiastic. Sorry."

"As long as we understand each other. Well, come in, then. Of course I'll stay and help in whatever way I can."

"That might not be necessary, Mrs. Watt," Scieszka put in. "If you just show me where the master card file is, I think I can find what we need from there." She did understood the woman's reluctance to leave the files in someone else's hands; she felt that way about her own records. Every other record keeper would harbour the same fears: that the user of the materials would refile things in the wrong place, spill something on them, or lose them altogether.

"And you are...?" the woman raised her eyebrows.

"Scieszka's helping me," Havoc supplied. "She knows how to get through information fairly quickly."

"Scieszka?" Mrs. Watt repeated. "From Investigations?" She pulled the door open, allowing them to step in past her. "Oh, I know all about you, young lady. You're the one who did all that marvellous work, investigating Brigadier General Hughes's death on your own. That's all right, then." Her frosty demeanour melted further with every word. "I know you, at least," this, with a withering glance at Havoc, "know what you're doing here."

For a few moments, as Scieszka tried to absorb the idea that she'd acquired some notoriety and a good reputation through her investigations into Maes Hughes's death, it was hard to concentrate as Mrs. Watt showed her the internal workings of the Records department. Finally she took herself firmly in hand, pulling a notepad from a pocket and taking meticulous notes. The Records head took her to the master card file, a polished wooden cabinet of small drawers rising row upon row, filling up half a wall. Encouraged by the awe with which the girl greeted the sight, Mrs. Watt explained how to use it, and then took the proffered notepad to make sure Scieszka hadn't missed anything important.

Finally satisfied on that count, the woman collected her briefcase from her desk, and prepared to leave, her assistant having departed already after closing the counter opening with locking metal shutters. She smiled at Scieszka as she stood, hand on the doorknob. "You have a good grasp of everything now, I think," she remarked. "Remember to lock the door when you go, please. And make sure the lieutenant doesn't lose anything for us, won't you?" With a last, haughty glare at Havoc she pulled the door open, sailing through and shutting it firmly behind her.

Havoc had watched the entire process, arms folded, leaning against a nearby file cabinet. "You're very good. Like I said before," he grinned. "Impressive."

If she was blushing, she'd just die. She turned resolutely to the card file, running her hands over the brass handles on the little drawers, savouring the comfortable smell of paper, polish, and old wood. Plunging into the task at hand, she walked down the rows until she found the drawer labelled "Land Titles."

Within an hour, they had discovered that all quarries in this part of the country were located at a considerable distance from Central City. "I was afraid of that," Havoc muttered, leaning over her shoulder, surveying the papers spread on a table between two rows of filing cabinets.

"Why was that, lieutenant?" she wondered.

"They used alchemy to drag the dead city underground, and I figured it had to change the rock underneath Central. Armstrong couldn't say for sure, but I bet it was artificially constructed. So it would be more uniform, and probably wouldn't have the usual pockets and seams of different stone. So I had a feeling we'd be out of luck." He straightened up. "Shit. This is going to take even longer than I thought."

"Don't despair yet, lieutenant." Scieszka's eyes narrowed. "We'll find the closest quarry and send trucks that way tomorrow. That will buy some time. Then I'll find trucks that are already close to other quarries. They don't all have to travel out from Central, you know. We can requisition vehicles that are out there, and cut the travel time."

"You're right, good thinking. I knew there was a reason I thought of asking for your help."

He favoured her with his most charming smile, but she merely rolled her eyes. "Don't flutter those baby blues at me, lieutenant," she laughed. "I've already agreed to join the team, remember?"

She bent back over the records on the table, encouraged by his chuckle, and continued plotting their transportation strategy. This project, she thought, was probably going to be the most fun she'd ever had.

- - -

Lance took a large chunk of chalk and began drawing a transmutation circle in the middle of the empty street, chalk scraping on stone with a faint hiss. Falman towered over one half of the circle, holding up a lamp to supplement the growing light of dawn, while Fuery watched the proceedings from the other side and Laura bent to follow her boyfriend's movements. The young man had abandoned his military uniform today, matching his girlfriend in black pants, shirt, and jacket. His glittering crystal pendant dangled freely below his chin as he frowned over his work, intent on his drawing.

Havoc, standing back a ways with Reg Cash, shivered a little as they waited for the sun to peek above the nearby houses and start warming the chilly air. So far, only a row of smokeless chimneys on the western side of the street, dark bricks gradually tinting to pinkish brown, hinted that sunlight might be nigh.

It was odd, he thought, how quickly a street became blank and lifeless. The families who lived along in this double row of houses had all been relocated since the invasion, until the authorities could be sure that the ground underneath was solid and secure. And already there was an air of emptiness permeating the street. It even smelled empty. Sterile. The similarity to the streets in the cavern below made Havoc's skin crawl.

Armstrong had chosen this side road, two blocks from the large hole, for a "trial run" in which the stone alchemists would analyze the stability of the ground and do some repairs. They would still concentrate, for the next few days, on sealing the openings Fuery and Falman uncovered, before they moved on to the more challenging job of closing the big gap. But today's demonstration would help the supervisors to assess their abilities and decide how to plan the rest of the work.

And, just as crucially, Cash would begin to get some idea of the stability of the ground under Central, and what the risks would be when he unleashed his explosive forces in the cavern below.

Havoc hoped Armstrong wouldn't decide to begin work on the large hole too soon, but he already felt better about the timing, now that Scieszka was helping with the trucks. He smiled to himself, reflecting that the cool air was probably all that kept him awake, since he'd been in the Records department until almost 3:00 a.m.

He couldn't quite stifle a yawn at the recollection, and promptly heard Roy Mustang's amused drawl, "Are we keeping you up, lieutenant?"

He glanced at his superior, standing with Armstrong and Hawkeye just beyond the edge of the light from Falman's lantern, one casual hand in a pocket. The man seemed to lurk in the shadow, his eye patch and fall of hair blending into the darkness behind him, but the upturn of his lips was clearly visible. Havoc chuckled. "I'm bored. I need some explosions."

"I could fix that," Cash remarked, eyes never leaving the chalk work. "A little firecracker in your pocket...lots of excitement."

Mustang snorted. "I could set his hair on fire with much less work." Havoc noted Laura's alarmed glance over her shoulder, and shared a grin with the general.

The echo of running footsteps in the empty street interrupted them, heralding the rushed arrival of Scieszka, a sheaf of papers clutched in one hand. She waved them under Havoc's nose as she skidded to a stop beside him, light from the lantern sparkling off her glasses. "Good morning, lieutenant," she bubbled. "I hope you're awake. We were awfully late last night."

"'We'?" Mustang's eyebrow shot up. "Why, Lieutenant Havoc. A little fraternization I'm not aware of?"

Havoc grinned again. "Not that I'm aware of either, boss. We were prospecting for rock."

"Which is why I'm here," Scieszka said, briskly pulling a pen from her jacket pocket and thrusting it at Havoc, along with most of the papers. "These are the requisitions for the first trucks. If you sign them now, I'll run to the garage and get them going. Oh, and General Mustang." She shoved a form at him, along with another pen. "You'll need to sign this one yourself."

"Scieszka," Havoc murmured, pressing the forms against his knee so he could scribble his signature legibly, "you are a wonder-worker."

"Thanks, sir. I'll have more wonders ready by the end of the day."

Mustang stepped further into the lamplight, scanning his own form. Again his eyebrow went up. "Havoc? You're multiplying my staff like rabbits lately. Who will you have for us tomorrow? Scieszka, are you sure you want to come on board?"

"I'm already on board, general," she replied. "You just need to make it official."

"And I've hit the jackpot this time." Havoc added a flourish to his final signature. "I don't think I need to recruit anyone else."

"I think you're right." Mustang signed the transfer form, handing it back to Scieszka, and intercepted the other papers as Havoc finished. Flipping through them, the general murmured, "This many trucks? For what, exactly?"

"Like I said, sir. Rock. We're sending trucks to all the quarries in the countryside, to bring it in."

"That's for us, isn't it?" Laura interjected eagerly.

"You got it. To rebuild the big hole," Havoc nodded. "And once the trucks are done bringing in the stone, they'll be ready for the evacuations."

"Good thinking." Mustang smiled at Scieszka, eye glinting. "Maybe I should just hand control of this project to you and Havoc. You're doing a bang up job so far."

"Thank you, sir," the girl laughed. "But I've got my hands full with the trucks. I'll leave the rest to you, I think. Now. I have to get to the garage." She turned on her heel, about to dash off again, and then just as quickly whirled back. "Forgot," she blurted, sketching a belated salute to the general. Then she turned again and ran off, melting into shadow long before the sound of her footsteps faded.

Everyone except Lance watched her go. Havoc murmured, fighting down another yawn, "Whatever gives her all that energy, I want some."

Hawkeye glanced at Mustang, eyes twinkling in the reflected lamplight. "You signed the form immediately. I need to revise my methods, I think." He burst out laughing.

Wiping the back of his chalk hand across his forehead, Lance sat up on his heels. "Done," he said, and all attention returned to him. He grinned up at his audience. "Anyone want a little show?"

Havoc checked over his shoulder; the sky above the eastern houses was quickly brightening from dark to pinkish grey. Even though Mustang waved Fuery, Falman, and the lantern back from the circle, the faces of the four alchemists now displayed vaguely discernible features. Armstrong and the general stepped closer, ready to lend a hand if needed. "Lance, Laura," Mustang instructed, "whenever you two are ready."

Laura dropped to her knees inside the circle, opposite her boyfriend. Their eyes met and locked, seeming to shut out all external awareness. They sat in motionless silence, then leaned forward simultaneously, placing their hands onto the circle at the same instant, fingertips almost touching. They bowed their heads as the power in the circle began to activate.

Streaks of red and silver light sprang from the lines of the array and grew in strength, strobing around the two young people's bodies. The red light pulsed, very slowly at first, then with gradually increasing speed. Lance gulped a gasping breath with each pulse, while Laura's silver light held steady, as though bracing him while he settled into the rhythms of the power. Eventually the red light slowed to match the speed of his heartbeat, and he swallowed hard, his breath calming as well, as if he had overcome a complicated obstacle.

As the crimson light of Lance's power radiated and pulsed, the stone in Laura's brooch flashed in time with it, while his crystal pendant glittered steadily, mirroring the constant flow of her power.

"I see," Mustang murmured. "Lightstone Alchemist...and Heartstone Alchemist." Even a few feet away from the circle, the air seemed to crackle with the power, but he stepped closer and leaned right over the glowing array. Light flared around him, glittering off the buttons of his jacket, striking sparks of diamond and flame from his unruly hair. Stretching his open hand fully into the light above the kneeling couple, he stiffened with a gasp.

Hawkeye lurched toward him. "Wait," Armstrong cautioned, halting her with a firm hand on her shoulder. "General...be careful."

Havoc, too, had been ready to lunge forward, but Mustang had already relaxed, eye closed, frowning. There were no further signs of discomfort, but Havoc didn't blame Hawkeye for the way she watched him. They'd only gotten him back a few weeks ago, and they'd both be damned if they let any harm come to him now.

Laura slowly opened her eyes, watching her lover's face. Lance concentrated, lips parted, inhaling and exhaling in quick, sharp breaths. "The ground beneath us," Laura murmured, "is...intact. Yes. It's solid...the matrix was shaken, but...settled back and maintained its integrity. We're safe in this spot."

Mustang shared a look with Armstrong. "Astonishing," the big man whispered.

"Going deeper...deeper...," Laura continued, eyes still fixed on Lance's tense face. "It's strong...holding. Deeper...let's go deeper...it's – _NO!_"

Lance gasped, head and shoulders jerking up, his piercing shriek reverberating along the street. Lips pulled back in a rictus of pain, he fought to keep his eyes closed and his concentration focused. But his fingers clawed the ground at his knees, digging grooves into the road surface with the flow of alchemic power.

"Delacoeur!" Mustang's fist clenched above the circle. He leaned further over, and Havoc wondered if he was about to pull the plug on the whole exercise.

"_Lance_!" Laura cried, eyes wide. "It's so – it's so – _broad_. So – so – _open_. We'll fall – we'll fall – Lance, pull up – get us up – "

He balled his hands into fists, gritting his teeth. The red pulsing sped up as he fought for better control at some deep inner level, whimpering with staccato breaths. His skin gleamed red with the sweat of exertion, as though sheened with blood. Again, as Havoc watched the tense lines of Mustang's body, he thought the general might just cut this business short.

But at last the young alchemist took control, slowing his breath and the pulsing of the light, jaw clenched with the effort. His hands flattened again on the ground. Briefly he opened his eyes, meeting Laura's gaze and allowing a quick smile. He nodded once, waiting until she grew calmer, then closed his eyes again.

She swallowed, struggling for composure. "Just a bit farther, then," she murmured. "Moving outward...closer...the gap is there, in the distance..." Her gaze and concentration turned inward. Then, "Cracks," she blurted. "A few...but there are more, the farther we go...spreading and branching..."

The red light had finally settled back into a continuous, steady pulse, but now the white light intensified. For an instant, Havoc imagined he felt the ground vibrating under his feet. Laura closed her eyes again, brows drawn together. Mustang, still holding his hand above the circle, drew a sharp breath and jerked as though he'd been struck.

This time Havoc stepped forward, but Armstrong exclaimed, "Lieutenant, stop! He knows what he's doing. Wait." Havoc met Hawkeye's anxious gaze, tempted to disobey the caution.

But he held back a little longer, gnawing at his lip. The white light swelled to brilliance, then faded and frayed into the dawn glow. The red pulsed more and more slowly, until it, too, dwindled completely away. Laura and Lance opened their eyes at the same moment. He managed a weak smile across the circle at her, and she leaned forward, pulling him into her arms. He sagged, laying his head on her shoulder with a long sigh.

Instantly Mustang went to one knee in the circle beside them, a hand resting lightly on each of their backs. "Are you all right?"

Laura blinked up at him. "I think we'll be fine, general. In a minute or two. We haven't gone so far before." She stroked the hair that hung in damp clumps across her fiancé's eyes until he finally lifted his head and sat back on his heels.

"Well," he remarked. "That was an adventure." He smiled blearily, then flashed an impudent grin. "So, general," he said. "Was it good for you?"

Mustang's lips twitched. He flexed the hand that had bathed in the red and white light, and drawled, "Why yes, it was. Very satisfying." He got to his feet, followed by the two young people.

Lance staggered as he stood, and Laura slipped under one of his arms, pulling it around her shoulders. He grinned again, crookedly, pale face gradually regaining its colour.

"Now," the general said. "Tell me what you just did. Am I correct, Lance, that you seek out the inner workings of the stone, while Laura does the actual manipulation of its elements?"

"That's very perceptive, general," Lance agreed. "I found cracks running out from the fracture, and Laura repaired them as far as she could reach."

"And it was when you pushed your perception down too far," Mustang mused, "that you encountered the open cavern and had to pull up."

"General," Lance breathed, "could you really see everything we did? That's amazing."

"Not everything, but I could sense a lot of it, and I guessed the rest."

Laura lifted a knee and brushed a smudge of light dust from her black leggings. "That's excellent guesswork. But you know it could have been dangerous, don't you? The way you stuck your hand into the circle?"

"I know. But I knew I'd have at least two rescuers if there was trouble." Mustang cast an amused glance over his shoulder. Hawkeye's direct gaze didn't so much as flicker, but Havoc rolled his eyes. Did the guy ever miss anything?

"Well, just be careful in future," the girl advised. "Give us some warning, general, so we can take precautions in case there's a backlash."

"Lance," Havoc put in, "was there anything unusual about the actual rock?" He tapped a toe on the cobblestones underfoot. "Is it the normal sort of rock you'd find anywhere else in the country?"

"No," the young man shook his head. "It's not normal at all. As far as I can tell, every single bit of stone under Central City was created by alchemy."

"And that," Mustang reflected, "would be why there are no quarries close to the city. Good deduction, Havoc."

Laura now turned her gaze down the blocked street. The sun had finally emerged above the eastern roofs, casting shadows halfway across the road and sharply illuminating every outline, brick, and crack in the row houses on the western side. "Since we've repaired this area, we should be able to move, oh, a block closer, I'd say. About halfway."

"Very good," the general said. "Then that's where you'll start when you're done working with Fuery and Falman's exit points."

"I'd really rather finish this section today, General Mustang."

"Plenty of time for that later, Lightstone," he replied, turning back toward the others.

"But I want to finish it today – _Flame_," she retorted. "Maybe we can't rebuild the big gap yet, but I really want to start repairing the ground around it."

He stiffened, and rounded on the young alchemist. "Your first priority is to work with Fuery and Falman, which is every bit as important. Just start with that, and you'll get to the rest of the work when it's time. Is that clear?"

Laura glared at him, an angry flush creeping up her checks, and then shrugged, pursing her lips. "Fine. Whatever you say. For now."

He turned his back and moved to his next task. "And now. Cash, we should head below to meet Breda and your teams. Hawkeye, Havoc, you're with us as well. Carry on, Armstrong." And he stalked away without a backward glance, the sound of his footsteps cracking sharply off the brick walls of the houses.

"My my," Laura grumbled. "He really doesn't like to be contradicted. And you want me to think he's not a tyrant?"

Havoc retorted, "Lady, you really believe in walking on the edge, don't you? You might try looking in the mirror, when you talk about being contradicted. You'd better watch your step if you don't want to get singed."

"She won't be." Lance staunchly tightened his arm around the girl's shoulders. "I won't let anything touch her."

They both looked, Havoc decided as he walked away, absolutely scared to death.

The attention of the rest of Mustang's cadre now turned to the cavern, where a large quietly murmuring group of people awaited them in the square near the transmutation circle. Breda was in charge, assisted by Second Lieutenant Maria Ross and a couple of lieutenants who regularly worked with Cash. Havoc and Ross exchanged a smile. Whatever else was going on, he enjoyed how so many faces from two years ago were reappearing now. Kind of a "full circle" thing.

As his audience fell silent, Mustang began to explain the plan for laying explosives in several successive rings around and within the city. Havoc could tell, from the way people kept glancing over their shoulders at the looming tiers of silent buildings above, that this was the first trip down here for most of them. He empathized with their unease; every time he came down, the atmosphere of the place settled onto him, physically and mentally, like a lead blanket. He could feel it again: that sensation of the buildings _leaning_ over him as though waiting to collapse on top of him the next time he glanced away. Already he'd begun to shift his shoulders, reflexively, trying to shrug off the dead weight of the city and its high roof of shimmering stone. It wore on a person's mind after a while.

But the way the newcomers also avoided standing anywhere near the transmutation circle reminded him of a herd of animals trapped between a cliff and a pool of quicksand. They were professionals, and he was sure they'd manage to suppress their uneasiness and get on with the job. But he understood how they felt, better than they dreamed.

"The problem with starting up there," Mustang said, waving a hand and breaking into Havoc's train of thought, "is that I don't have the accuracy or power to trigger the explosions from this distance. And by the time I worked my way around the circle, the earliest explosions would be out of time with the later ones. And I'd have to do it all again with the next ring. And so on."

Lieutenant Ross wondered, "Wouldn't it be enough to set them all on a timer, sir?"

He replied, "The precision we need is so crucial that, frankly, I don't want to trust the job to a mechanical device that could fail or mis-time. I know you'll all lay the explosives as evenly as possible, but in the end, there needs to be human control in case anything goes wrong."

Cash scanned the rising tiers of the city, turning slowly to view the entire circle. He interrupted himself to question the general. "You talk about limits in accuracy and power. I thought...didn't you alchemists have some devices, a while ago, to augment your powers? I thought you used them in..."

"Ishbal," Mustang finished flatly. "Yes. But those...devices...no longer exist. And I wouldn't use them if they did. I'll make do."

"Then you'll need a series of fuse lines, that you can ignite more centrally. They'll run up the streets and set off the outer explosions at about the same time. Those will trigger lines that are timed to set off the next ring. And so on."

"And then I could deal with separate discrepancies as they arise. That's how I hoped it could work," Mustang nodded.

Cash mused, frowning, "We'll lay everything out as accurately as possible. But some explosions may still go off time, even if the beginning is synchronized. You may not have quite the force you need at the end."

"That," Mustang answered smugly, "is where the Flame Alchemist really comes in. I'll put the final touches on, to correct those errors. That's why I don't want to rely on a timer, at any stage."

Cash's eyes flew to his face. At last he said softly, "I'm not sure you understand all the ramifications of this plan, general."

Mustang smiled and corrected him, "I understand it exactly. You forget, major. I also know something about exploding things, and I'm taking all the factors into account. All of them. I simply need you and your men to set up the rings for me."

"Are you...very sure about this?"

"I am absolutely sure."

Another long silence, as the munitions man searched his superior officer's face for...what? Havoc raised an curious eyebrow at Hawkeye behind the general's back, and was rewarded with the faintest mystified shrug.

Finally Cash nodded, despite his obvious if inexplicable reluctance. "Very well, General Mustang. If you want it done like this...I can set it up for you."

The next few minutes bordered on the chaotic, as Breda, Ross, and two of Cash's own crew organized the surveyors and munitions people into teams. These four would take charge of surveying and eventually laying explosives in different quarters of the city, with Cash overseeing everything.

Mustang and his two lieutenants hung back, watching the sorting process. Havoc noted yet again how the dead air of the cavern seemed to suck all sound into itself, muffling even the calling of names and general hubbub of the organizing.

After a while, to distract himself, he brought up his concerns about the long preservation of the city.

"Good thinking," Mustang said. He called Cash over when the organizing appeared to have passed to his sub-commanders. "A new issue, major," he said. "I didn't take all the factors into account after all. If it's alchemy that has kept the city so well preserved, there might be more difficulty in blowing it all up."

"Meaning it might have changed the composition of the buildings?"

"Yes. Which could change our entire strategy. Have your surveyors get started anyway, but Havoc, please let Armstrong know that I need Lance and Laura down here, first thing tomorrow. I think Lance can settle this question for us."

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "You know Laura won't appreciate being delayed – again – in getting on with the project."

"That's why I'm letting Havoc break the news," Mustang replied smugly.

"You're all heart, boss," Havoc grumbled.

The major remained with them a few moments, watching his teams starting up into the empty streets to begin their work. The city briefly resembled an anthill, lines of people marching up almost every major road. He remarked, "Your people – Breda and Ross – they're quite good. They mesh very well with my crew."

"I'm glad it's working out, then," Mustang smiled.

Cash eyed him sidelong, the hint of speculation back in his eyes. "You know, general," he mused. "I don't know whether I should consider you an evil genius, or an inspired madman."

Mustang threw back his head and laughed. He drawled, "Why thank you, Major Cash. Either way, that's the nicest thing anyone's called me in a long time."

Havoc grinned. "Don't feel bad, Cash. The rest of us haven't decided either."

The major chuckled. But still...there was something in those grey eyes whenever he looked at the general. Something that didn't share in the amusement. Havoc couldn't help wishing he knew what it was.

It was this place, he decided with an involuntary shiver, casting yet another uneasy glance over his shoulder. It really creeped him out, every time he came here. It would be such a relief when this was all over.

But finishing the job depended on getting all the little details settled. And to that end, he headed back topside, to find Armstrong, check on Scieszka, and run a few other errands. He knew Hawkeye would begin meeting with city officials today about the evacuations, while Mustang reported the latest progress to the Council. They were all going to be very busy for quite a while.

It was great to have the team working together like this again.

- - -

The next morning felt like a duplicate of the morning before, except for the location: Mustang, Havoc, Hawkeye, and Cash waded through murky shadows along the centre aisle of the old religious sanctuary, as Armstrong, Laura, and Lance waited for them beside the front altar, in the light of a single lamp that burned just above the entrance to the stairway. Outside, the sun had only just begun to peer over the tops of the nearby buildings, and the morning chill hadn't quite vanished. At least Havoc had gotten more sleep last night.

Laura's tart comment was predictable. "There had better be a good reason for this delay, general." Lance stood at her side, biting his lip, head swivelling between his girlfriend and his superior.

"Not your concern, Lightstone." Mustang swept past her toward the stairs below the altar.

"We're not getting any of our work done, you know," she snapped at his back. "Not even the smaller things you've stuck us with."

"You wanted to work on the gap," he tossed over his shoulder, "so today you can examine the underside. And we have work for you in the cavern. Now stop complaining, and follow me. You'll think it's worth it, when you see the view."

The two younger alchemists fell into step behind the general and Hawkeye, followed by the others. The chill of the morning vanished quickly as they descended toward the uncanny warmth of the cavern. At first they walked down the stairs in silence, but it wasn't long until the whispers began: Lance and Laura exclaiming to each other as they passed, one after another, the ancient, broken statuary and wall carvings that adorned the walls of the stairwell.

"Look! Look at that one! Do you remember – we saw it in that book – "

"And look at that one. Doesn't it remind you of...?"

"We'll have to come back, later, when there's time."

"I could swear I've seen that inscription in..."

They were all the same, these alchemists, Havoc thought. Insatiably curious, always collecting knowledge from obscure and arcane sources. As the stairwell curved ahead, he was sure he saw the general smiling as he listened.

At last they emerged at the top of the high path near the roof of the cavern, and the young people saw the buried city for the first time. Lance gasped in wonder and, to her credit, even Laura stopped short with a muffled exclamation. As she viewed the city in all its silent, drunkenly-tilted glory, she swallowed and murmured, "All right, general, I forgive you. This was worth a delay."

"Magnanimous of you," he answered dryly.

"And the city is really empty?" Lance faltered, brows drawn. "How...how did this happen? A whole city. I don't understand. It feels so...so..."

Mustang regarded the young man's distress in silence, lips parted, until he finally looked away, jaw tight. "Long story, Heartstone," he said stiffly. "We don't have time for it."

Havoc realized he'd been holding his breath, and released it slowly. Only the general's inner circle had officially been told what had happened down here, and he agreed with the boss: nobody else really needed to know. Especially these kids.

As the seven of them proceeded down the long path to the bottom, Lance and Laura tore their eyes away from the panorama below, and concentrated on what they could see of the cavern roof. The gap was visible even though the sun hadn't yet reached it, revealed as a jagged patch of lighter grey gouged out of the darker surrounding rock. Yet the lack of light from outside was actually beneficial, allowing the strange silver radiance from the stone to emanate evenly and reveal details that would otherwise have been obscured by daylight.

The trek downward was almost a repeat of the trip down the stairs: Laura and Lance conferring softly, sometimes slowing down or even stopping altogether, pointing and whispering. Finally Mustang brought the group to a halt at the side of the path, and waited as they whispered, not even noticing that everyone had stopped. At length he asked, "What do you conclude so far?"

Lance looked up, and seemed surprised to see everyone waiting. But it was Laura who answered briskly, "I'm not sure if you can tell, General, but there are distinct cracks spreading from that hole, in all directions." She pointed and he drew close, bending to try to follow her sight line. He nodded as she continued, "I don't think the edges are going to hold much longer. I'm not just saying this because I want to get working on it; it really is precarious."

"She's right," Lance agreed. "Can you see those two patches near one of the edges, where the colour of the stone is lighter? That's where there's been a very recent rock fall. Probably in the last two days."

Havoc's breath caught sharply, heart pounding in his throat with heavy, painful thuds. The last two days. The general slowly straightened, staring upwards, every line of his body rigid. Havoc wished he could see his face.

But Laura could, and frowned uncertainly at what she saw. "General Mustang...? What's wrong? I promise we're not making this up..."

"Sorry. Of course. I believe you." The man visibly forced his shoulders to loosen, clearing his throat to relieve the strain in his voice.

Sometimes it seemed that the guy was superhuman, the way he could pull himself back from the brink. Havoc's own heart still raced with horror, and he had to make himself keep his head down. Not look at the gap in the roof. Not look at anyone nearby. Especially...especially...

Mustang continued, though his voice remained taut, "We'll speed up your schedule as much as we can. Havoc, you and Scieszka must get those first shipments here as soon as humanly possible. And when we've got any usable stone at all, Laura and Lance, you'll start work on the weakest points of the gap. Thank you for the warning. Now let's get on with the business at hand."

Armstrong peered a moment at the general's face before motioning for the two young people to follow him down the path. Mustang hesitated and then, as though dragged against his will, turned slowly toward Lieutenant Hawkeye, who waited in silence behind him. His gaze met hers, single eye dark and troubled against his pale skin. Her lips opened, just slightly, but she said nothing.

Havoc found himself holding his breath again, whether in fear or anticipation, he didn't know. He didn't want to know what he was waiting for.

"Dammit, Hawkeye." A harsh whisper, bursting out of its own accord. Mustang clenched his teeth to contain what might have followed, and turned on his heel to stalk after Armstrong and the others. The lieutenant's fists, held tightly at her sides, released with a spasm, and she headed down after him.

"What the hell, Jean...?" Reg Cash, hands on hips, frowning in consternation as he watched the duo's progression downward.

"She..." Havoc swallowed around the raspiness of his throat. He bent over, hands on his knees, trying to collect himself. "She explored the city right under the gap a couple of days ago. He told her not to, and she just went ahead anyway. She's...supposed to be protecting him, you see. Not the other way around."

"I...see." The man shook his head, and growled, "So tell me. Are _all_ of you trying to get killed down here?"

"No," Havoc chuckled weakly, pulling himself upright, "just some of us." He met his friend's sharp glance with a rueful grin. "Let's get going, Reg. They'll work it out. They always do."

"If you say so. Meanwhile, I've got to get my teams out from under that hole, until these kids can guarantee there'll be no more rock falls."

At the bottom, having stopped near the edge of the array at a building that appeared to have been a small residence, Mustang was already explaining the latest problem when Havoc and Cash caught up. He appeared, at least externally, to have recovered his equilibrium, sparing them the merest glance as they approached.

"What we need to know," he was saying to Lance, "is whether the molecular structure of the city was altered when it was sucked underground and preserved. And whether normal explosives will be effective against it."

"No problem, general. Easy to find out." Lance pulled out a stick of chalk and sketched a small transmutation circle on the front wall of the house, finishing with a dramatic flourish. He tossed the chalk in the air, winking at Laura, standing on his other side. She caught it matter-of-factly, apparently used to these little gestures. Now he reached out his hands, and for the first time, hesitated. "It already...it feels odd," he whispered.

Mustang put a hand on his shoulder. "I know it does," he murmured. "I've got you, if anything strange happens."

Lance steeled himself and pressed his hands onto the circle. It glowed bright red, again pulsing to match the rate of his own heartbeat. There was no mix of Laura's white light this time, but the pendant hanging over his heart glittered occasionally as his power grew in strength. He bowed his head, closing his eyes, hair falling forward and sweeping his cheekbones.

But in just a few moments he relaxed, let the light fade, and told the general, flicking the hair out of his eyes, "That was easier than I expected. And yes, the buildings were altered, but the binding is very light. Almost...," he searched for words, "...almost a veneer on top. It preserved the stone and brick against normal degradation, though I don't think it worked as well on wood. But if it's jolted by explosives, it's brittle enough that it won't resist. So it shouldn't be a hindrance."

"Delacouer," Mustang said, squeezing the younger man's shoulder, "you've just removed what could have been a fatal obstacle to this whole plan. Good man."

Lance flushed with pleasure. "General – thanks – that means – I mean, I'm glad I could answer your question."

Havoc restrained a chuckle, but shared a knowing glance with Hawkeye. It looked like Roy Mustang was in the process of attracting another disciple. Moths to a Flame, they all were. Laura, looking slowly from one to the other, seemed to be trying to decide whether she was entirely pleased.

"All right, Cash," the general began, turning briskly to the newcomers, "we'll stay on the schedule we've set. Armstrong, we'll meet with Fuery and Falman to adjust – "

"Lance!" Laura burst out. "What are you doing?"

The young alchemist had stepped away from the group. As the others turned to check what was going on, he had already lowered himself to one knee at the edge of the large transmutation circle, reaching out a curious hand.

"Delacouer! _Stop!_" Mustang shouted, leaping forward, but it was already too late.

Lance's hand touched ground. Light flared into being underneath it, blossoming into white shards, spreading along several lines of the array and stabbing up toward the cavern roof. The glow quickly shaded into darker tones, plummeting through the colours until it deepened to blood red, throbbing quickly into synchronization with his racing heart.

He stared into the light, dark eyes widening in mounting horror, malevolent crimson streaks slashing his face as though someone had taken a knife to him. He gasped in pain with each stab of light. Though his arm shook as it supported his weight, he wouldn't – or couldn't – pull his hand away.

Hawkeye caught Laura from behind as she dashed toward him. "Wait!" the woman commanded, trapping the squirming girl firmly in her arms.

Mustang clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder, yanking him backwards, away from the circle. Hot sparks flew under Lance's fingers as the connection broke. He sat back on his haunches, gasping, and threw his arms over his head, screaming as though his heart had been ripped from his chest.

"_Lance!_" Laura's scream rose in response. "Let me go – he needs me – let me _go_!" But Hawkeye's arms were like chains, holding her firm no matter how wildly she struggled.

Mustang fell to his knees beside the young man and threw his arms around him. Lance collapsed against him, hysterical sobs heaving through his body. "It's all right, Lance. You're safe now. It's all right."

"No! It's not – there's no – how can you use that word??" Lance cried raggedly. "It's not _safe_! It's – it's – "

"Hush," Mustang soothed. "It's over now. I've got you."

Lance raised his deathly pale, tear-streaked face and clutched at the man's uniform with fingers like claws. "General – I felt them – "

"I know."

"They were in torment – they were screaming – and screaming – "

"Oh Lance, I'm sorry."

"Who did this to them – _who would do such a thing?_" The pitch of the young man's voice rose with his distress. "The people – all the people of the city – _they're all in the circle_! All their souls, all of them!"

Laura stopped struggling in Hawkeye's arms, her mouth dropping open. The blood drained from her face as she traced the lines of the circle with her eyes, absorbing the import of her fiancé's words.

"How could someone do this?" Lance cried. "Use alchemy this way! To kill people! To kill a whole city! Kill so many...so many..." He stared into the general's face, the words backing up in his throat as he finally realized just what he was saying. And to whom.

"I'm sorry," Mustang whispered. The young man bowed his head and leaned against the man's chest, the hysteria gradually subsiding until he was left weeping softly. Mustang tightened his arms around him and murmured, "I never wanted you to know about this. I didn't want either of you to be touched by this kind of atrocity."

The general lifted his head, and for some reason, turned his gaze to Reg Cash. "Well, Major?" he said softly. "Do you understand now?"

Havoc looked from one to the other, brows drawn in bewilderment. But whatever he was missing, Cash himself seemed to understand too well. The man's face was positively ashen. He stood ramrod stiff, and made no reply except a single jerking nod.

Lance's hands clutched Mustang's uniform again as he exclaimed, "Just tell me what you want, general. Anything! Whatever I have to do to help end this – I'll do it. We both will. It's – it's too horrible."

"You're already doing all we can ask, kid." The man managed a twisted smile. "We're all going to make sure this thing is destroyed, believe me. And we can't do it without you. But first you have to let this go."

"Let it go! How, sir? How can I ever forget this?" Lance gulped down a couple more sobs. His whole body still shook in the circle of the man's arms.

"You never forget," Mustang told him. "But you let the horror flow away, and retain only the resolve to stop things like this from ever happening again. It's hard to learn – I hoped you'd never have to learn it – but you can do it, Lance. I know you can. And you'll have lots of help."

Now he looked over and waved for Laura to come. As Hawkeye released her, she virtually flew to her lover's side, collapsing to her knees, as Mustang pulled away and allowed her to take his place. The two young people clung together at the edge of the circle, while he stood and walked back to the others.

"Well," he remarked, echoing Lance's words from yesterday. "That was an adventure."

"Will he be all right?" Hawkeye asked.

"I think so. Laura will see to it. We won't ask them to do any work today."

"And are you all right, boss?" Havoc put in.

Mustang glanced over in surprise. He met Havoc's eyes for a moment, before smiling wryly. "Yes. I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Let's just keep going. We need to keep going until we're done."


	5. Great Works and Small Mercies

**Chapter 5 – Great Works and Small Mercies**

Hawkeye shifted the files on her desk, absently flipping one open as she glanced toward the outer office door in response to the pounding footsteps outside. The door burst open with a bang, and Havoc flung himself into the room, waving a cigarette in one hand, a huge grin plastered on his face, cheeks flushed with enthusiasm.

"The trucks are here!" he cried. "I didn't expect them for two days, and there are more coming. I swear, I'm going to take Scieszka to dinner when this is over, and even Roy Mustang won't get in my way." He put the cigarette to his lips, taking a drag, leaning his head back and blowing out a long, satisfied stream of smoke. "She's a miracle-worker, I tell you."

Hawkeye raised an amused eyebrow. "She's certainly made our work easier. Is there any chance I can use some of those trucks for evacuations, or will they need to go back out for more stone?"

"I think they'll have to go out again, but I'll see what the stone people say when they look at what we've got now. Where are they today?" Havoc swept past the other unoccupied desks to the table in the centre of the office, where the crew kept the large ledger in which they recorded their daily work. He leaned one hand on the table, cigarette smouldering between two fingers, flipping through the pages with the other hand.

Hawkeye knew the answer, having written it down only moments ago. "Fuery called from the women's college in the northeast. They found a shaft that vents from the cavern into a gully behind the college. They're sealing it today."

"Good, I'll head over. But first," Havoc cocked his head toward the closed inner door, "is he in? I thought I'd make a quick report, unless he's busy."

"I'm afraid he has people in – or no, I guess not," Hawkeye corrected herself as the door in question began to open, light from the inner office window casting the long shadow of several figures across the floor.

Major Cash emerged along with his four team leaders, and Mustang followed them to his office door, continuing a conversation begun inside, "...so the next shipment of materials will be delivered to the sanctuary within a couple of hours, and there shouldn't be any delays after that."

"Good," Cash nodded. "With the surveys done now, it won't take long to get the inner lines laid down. We'll do the two outer lines last, since they'll need much more precision."

Ross had come out carrying several surveyors' maps, and now flopped them onto the table to roll them up, the smell of ink wafting from them as they rolled. "Good morning, Lieutenant Havoc," she said. "You look happy about something."

He grinned at her. "I am. I've got trucks full of rock down at the garage, just waiting for me to send them somewhere."

"Good news," Mustang approved, relaxing against his office doorframe, hands in pockets. "They're early, aren't they?"

Breda clapped a hand on Havoc's shoulder. "This means we can finish sooner in that quarter of the city, too. Good work."

"Wish I could take credit," Havoc answered. "Scieszka's a miracle-worker, like I was telling Hawkeye."

"That good, eh?" Mustang remarked with a knowing little smirk. "So she'll need a reward for all her great work. I'm sure you'll be up to that, won't you?"

The lieutenant flushed and laughed slightly, and Hawkeye thought he might, just might, be avoiding looking at her. She seemed to remember something about buying someone dinner...

"Barking up the wrong tree, there, boss," Havoc said, running a quick hand through his ruffled hair. "We're all just doing our jobs." He cast a quick glance at Ross, who grinned at his discomfort. "Anyway," the man turned resolutely to his original purpose, "I just wanted to let you know the stone's here. I'm headed over to Fuery's group now." He directed a last quick smile in Ross's direction. "See you around," he said, the flush still tingeing his cheeks, then turned on his heel and sauntered out of the room, the bitter cigarette aroma gradually fading behind him. The sound of whistling wove a counterpoint to his receding footfalls.

Hawkeye listened with half an ear as Cash and his team finalized some details about today's delivery of materials, then nodded to the major as he led them out past her desk. Breda glanced back with a wink, before pulling the door shut behind him. She hadn't seen him in such a good mood for a long time.

Now she discovered the general still leaning against the doorframe watching her, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. "And no," he said, as though she had spoken, "I'm not going to start flirting with Scieszka."

"I didn't say a thing," came her automatic protest. It was an old ritual.

"You know you were thinking it," he taunted lazily.

"And Ross?" Hawkeye raised an eyebrow.

His lips curved. "You caught that, did you? No, I think I'll leave the fraternization problems to Jean this time. We'll see what he does with them."

"Excuse me, but perhaps you're ill, general?" she asked with polite interest.

Mustang grinned at her. "No, I'm retired. Haven't you figured that out yet?" When she widened sceptical eyes, he added softly, "I already told you how sick I am of lying about everything."

Hawkeye set down her pen, leaned back in her chair, and regarded him thoughtfully. "So the others were right. They thought you'd changed while you were away, and I wasn't so sure. But now... I wonder just what you saw, in the Fuhrer's cellar, and at that northern post the last two years." She braced herself for an angry response; he still hadn't spoken to her about any of those experiences.

But he laughed instead. "I decide not to try to seduce Scieszka or Ross, and you think it's because of my fight with Bradley two years ago? Hawkeye, don't you think you're drawing a few too many conclusions from a small gesture of consideration for Lieutenant Havoc?"

Ah. One of his typical diversionary moves. She had obviously stepped close to some crucial truth. "No I don't," she refused to be diverted. "These things are all connected, whatever you say."

His laughter faded to a wry smile. "How well you know me," he murmured. He bowed his head in thought, hair fanning over his eye and the patch. "All right. In the cellar...I saw what I could become, if the Fuhrer's power was placed in my hands. The things he said and did to me... And up north...," he looked up, gaze focused over her head at something a long distance away, "I had time to think, for the first time in years." He fell silent in momentary contemplation.

"You obviously drew some conclusions," Hawkeye finally prompted him.

His eye moved slowly to settle again on her face. The gentle fondness of his gaze penetrated her soul so unexpectedly that the breath flew out of her and her heart began to race unevenly. Clammy fists clenched of their own accord on her files as she fought for inward self-control.

"I learned," he said softly, "to value myself again. And to value what I truly love. Maes would tell me it's about time, I'm sure. I may be a decade late, but I did come around eventually." He straightened up, hands dropping to his sides. "I should get back to work and make some calls. And we have to grab lunch before we head to the Council meeting later." He turned back toward his office, but stopped, a hand on the doorframe. "Riza...," he began, and paused.

"What is it?" she managed, the breath still constricted in her chest.

He looked back over his shoulder. "The only doubt I had, before I came back, was whether you would still want to work with me, after everything that had happened."

Somehow Hawkeye found her voice. "You never needed to doubt it. And you never will. Surely you understand that."

"I do now," he answered softly. "And one day soon...you'll understand how much your support and...everything...have meant to me. I can't give you more explanations than I already have. Not yet. But you'll know everything there is to know, if you're willing to wait just a little longer."

So many things she could answer, so much she wished she could say. But he knew as well as she did that they were already too close to the brink, and she didn't dare. All she could do was nod in silence. But she knew he understood it all.

Mustang took a deep breath and let it out, as though cleansing himself of the confessional mood. He flashed one of his little smiles and drawled, "I'm glad the project's moving along so well in the meantime. And you have to admit," he added, "the last few weeks have been just plain _fun_, haven't they?" Whereupon he stepped at last into his office and closed the door.

Hawkeye finally managed a full breath, and smoothed her warm palms several times over the blessedly cool files on her desk. She'd gotten more than she expected. It wasn't like him to expose himself so openly, even to her.

But he was right, she realized with an uncharacteristic burst of amusement. "Fun" was exactly how his subordinates would describe what life had been like since Mustang's dramatic return. They had been – and of course still were – run off their feet, supervising all the details involved in getting rid of the transmutation circle in the cavern. But it was exhilarating work. They had a real unity of purpose, and a sense that they were working toward something very important, a feeling that had been missing from their lives for two years. He had brought it back to them, and yes, he had made it fun.

It was so good to have that feeling back. To have _him_ back.

Over the next few days, Mustang and Hawkeye met several times with the governing Council of Amestris, to keep them abreast of the work's progress and to coordinate the evacuation of the city. People with homes in the country were already packing up and leaving, hopefully to return when everything underfoot was stable again. Many had taken friends and relatives along.

But most citizens had nowhere to go. So again Scieszka came to the rescue, making lists of hotels and inns in towns all around Central. With the authority of Parliament and General Mustang behind her, she called the mayors of each town, instructing them to arrange the billeting of citizens from Central. This would take care of a large number of Central's people, but still not all.

At this point, Fuery and Falman popped into the office one morning, before beginning that day's survey of the city. Falman unfurled a set of maps on the table in the centre of the room, Hawkeye watching curiously, while Fuery stuck his head into the inner office. "We've got some ideas, sir," he informed the general. "We think you'll like them." Almost before his superior officer emerged, Fuery began explaining his and Falman's plan to create camp sites near fresh water sources some distance from Central, where the rest of its people could live while Mustang's crew made sure they'd have a city to return to.

"We'll put them here." Falman tapped his finger on specific sites along the two main rivers that flowed into the city. "Most are near small towns, so they'll have access to roads and supplies. As we fill up one camp, we'll move up to the next site and start another one."

"Good work," Mustang nodded, leaning his hands on the table and studying the areas that had been circled in red. "I notice they're all upstream."

"Of course," Fuery agreed. "If Central collapsed from the explosion, both rivers would start draining into the cavern. So we want the camps where the water supply will remain stable, no matter what happens."

"Good thinking. Although," the general muttered, half to himself, "that opens the question of what happens to the lands and towns downstream, if the rivers go dry."

"Sir," Hawkeye protested, "you're already doing all you can to make this project safe. You can't possibly take responsibility for everything." He glanced over, frowning uncertainly, and she maintained her firm gaze.

"No need to worry about that anyway, lieutenant," Falman maintained. "We sent some maps to the head of the agriculture department, and an explanation of the problem. So he and his department should already be making emergency plans, just in case."

"You see?" Hawkeye persisted. "That's their job, general. Not yours."

"Yes, but...I can't help thinking...," Mustang's fingers trailed down the line of the two rivers on the map. "But no, you're right. We have to leave that to them." He straightened up. "You two have been busy. You've been thinking about this for a while, have you?"

"Actually, sir," Fuery replied, "we talked to Breda about it, two nights ago at the bar."

Hawkeye chuckled to herself. The tavern closest to headquarters had remained open even as other bar owners followed their customers elsewhere. This one was packed every night, with some of the remaining citizens and the work crews. It would seem that a lot of business got done there as well.

"We just needed to talk to you about the camps, General Mustang," Fuery told the man earnestly. "If you think the idea should go ahead, Breda says Cash could likely spare some people to help set up. They don't need as many people down below, any more."

Hawkeye interjected, "Of course it should go ahead. We needed to find somewhere for the rest of the people to evacuate. This is an ideal solution."

"Thank you, lieutenant," Fuery beamed.

"All right," Mustang said. "I'll go below and talk to Cash. Hawkeye, call Scieszka to get her help coordinating the teams. Fuery, Falman – excellent work."

The maps rippled as Falman rolled them up. Fuery recorded their planned morning's work, then waved cheerfully to Hawkeye as the two men left. Hawkeye returned to her desk, while Mustang headed for the inner office.

"General," she began, but he cut her off.

"Hawkeye – just drop it. I got your point. I have work to do." He strode into the office, shutting the door perhaps slightly harder than he needed to.

She pulled the phone closer, shaking her head, and began to dial Scieszka's number.

Later that day, Havoc stepped in with yet more help. He called his family, who owned a couple of shops, and they went on to contact their own suppliers and neighbouring store owners. Shortly thereafter, tents, dried food, and other camping supplies began to pour into the city.

Gradually, over the following days, the streets began to empty in earnest. Each day that she walked from her apartment to the office, Hawkeye's footsteps echoed more loudly. The only sound that was constant, it seemed to her, was the rumbling of trucks still pouring in from the quarries, bringing rock for Laura and Lance. After a good cleaning, they then turned around and began transporting people to the inns in other towns, or to the growing tent cities along the rivers.

Meanwhile, the buried city itself was full of more life than it had been for four centuries. On her rare visits, Hawkeye got the impression that it was almost crawling with people. Most of the surveying was done, but as the gap in the roof closed, surveyors finally ventured into the previously forbidden quarter of the city to finish the work there, while other workers carted materials in and the munitions people set up the explosive caches.

They now worked mostly under the strange silvery light that emanated from the cavern roof, as the daylight grew less and less from the shrinking gap in the rock above. On one afternoon, Mustang stood with Hawkeye and Havoc on a high street, observing a caravan of small wagons trundling supplies carefully along the long, sloping path to the bottom of the cavern bowl, to the accompaniment of the shouts and cautionary urgings of the workers guiding the vehicles. The radiance in the rock above cast vague, shimmering shadows at their feet, and Hawkeye found herself continually blinking, as though trying unsuccessfully to focus her eyes.

The caravan supervisor, catching sight of them as he passed, remarked, "Hello, general Mustang. I was just thinking maybe you should make us some quick torches to see better."

Mustang turned his incredulous gaze to the man. "I hope you're joking," he snapped. "I'm not about to spark flames in this cavern while it contains more explosives than we've ever gathered into one place before."

"Yes, sir," the man grinned, unintimidated. "I really was joking. But we may need to run some temporary electrical lines in here soon, at least for the higher levels."

Mustang glanced at Havoc, mouth open, but the lieutenant replied matter-of-factly, "Ross suggested it a couple of days ago, sir, and I've already arranged it. They'll be running the lines just after lunch."

"Good work," the general said. "I see that you hardly need me at all."

Above ground, Fuery and Falman criss-crossed Central, walking down a street one minute, comparing maps as they walked, or checking the foundations of a block of buildings the next. They had so far found eight more passages that delved down into the rock. Three had been abandoned or blocked up, four were natural vents that had appeared over the years as the ground settled, and one emerged into the cavern as a rough balcony, just under the roof, where the entire city could be viewed far below.

Laura and Lance had sealed two of the natural vents and reinforced the blocked up passages before finally starting on the big gap itself. But once the stone began to arrive from the quarries, they concentrated entirely on the gap, driven by their knowledge of its instability. There had been at least one more small rockfall below, before they finally got going.

First they created a preliminary band of reinforcement all around the gap, strong enough to hold it until they could come back to it. That work alone took two entire days, but it was crucial for keeping the workers safe in the cavern.

Once the alchemists begun repair work on the gap itself, Mustang paid them a visit to try to estimate how long the entire task would take. He and Hawkeye left the car a block away and walked from there, so as not to disturb the balance of pressures within the rock any more than necessary.

Mustang surveyed the surrounding buildings as they walked in the afternoon sunlight. Hawkeye followed his gaze, noting an empty market area down a side street, its booths shuttered, their awnings looming over shadowed walks. A little further along, an open lot sat vacant and silent, bereft of the children who had played there just two weeks ago. A light breeze swept across it as they passed, gently stirring the grass. Absently, the general rubbed his forehead with the back of a hand.

"Anything wrong, sir?" Hawkeye asked immediately.

"Not really. It's just easier to keep an eye on things if you have two of them. I get a headache sometimes, but nothing serious."

"You should have mentioned it before, and I'd have gotten you something for it."

"I'm all right, lieutenant. I don't need babysitting quite to that extent yet."

"Sorry, sir." She looked away, jaw tight.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to sound insulting. Sorry. I just need you to take care of the big things, so they don't get overlooked. I don't want to waste you on minor things."

She answered softly, eyes fixed on the street ahead, "You know I don't consider anything 'minor' where you're concerned."

"I know. It's kept me alive more times than I can count. I never forget that. Though I know I've forgotten to tell you how grateful I am. More than grateful."

At last she looked up to find him smiling that unexpectedly fond smile again, a hand still on her shoulder as they walked. He seemed to be saying such things more often lately, and she really wished he wouldn't. "You don't need to say anything, sir," she answered briskly, hoping he'd take the hint.

A moment later, the hand was gone and his gaze swept once more across the street. "I hope we've thought of everything," he muttered. "A big enough hole that we don't find, and part of Central could blow sky high. It could take out half the city. Thank goodness you're getting everyone out of here. I can't...I can't bear the thought of anyone else...dying that way."

Hawkeye's eyes darted back to his face in time to catch the haunted shadow fleeting across it. Whatever healing had occurred up north, she wondered if it would ever really be complete, or remove the deep, disfiguring scars on his soul. A memory flashed through her mind: sitting at his bedside in hospital, gripping one of his hands as he writhed in delirium clutching his bandaged head with the other hand and crying in his agony, "_Why couldn't the bastard have better aim??_"

She thrust the thought away and reassured him, "You can trust Fuery and Falman. And Lance and Laura are just as dedicated. They'll keep the city safe."

They saw Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong first, looming over the other stone alchemists. The young people knelt side by side facing the gap, almost at its edge, eyes closed, red and white light blazing from their alchemic circle. Two piles of rough stone blocks sat to either side of the array, but as the alchemists concentrated, the white light spread to engulf the gradually shrinking mounds, while the edges of the gap shimmered and extended outward in a flat plane of smooth, featureless rock.

For a moment, Hawkeye thought she caught the mixed aroma of fresh earth and old dust, as inch by laborious inch, new stone was created from the old.

It took only five minutes to build several feet of stone, but the cost of the work showed in the two alchemists' drawn faces as they sat back on their heels, breathing heavily. Lance dragged an arm across his forehead, closing his eyes. At Armstrong's signal, a couple of assistants with canteens rushed forward to give them each a long drink. Another held damp cloths with which they wiped their faces.

"Hello, you two," Mustang said. "I'm very impressed. Excellent work."

"Oh hello, general," Laura peered over the cloth pressed to her cheeks, and managed a weary smile. "Thank you. You develop a rhythm, and the stone just seems to go where you want it." A stray lock of dark hair had come loose from the clip at the back of her head, and she absently tucked it behind one ear while she took a long drink from her canteen.

The general parked himself on one of the rock mounds, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Hawkeye recognized the eager interest on his face as he peered at the lines of the transmutation circle, always curious to learn more about the principles involved in the dual stone alchemy. Laura settled herself cross-legged, taking small sips from the canteen, while Lance sprawled backwards, leaning his elbows on the other mound of rocks to prop himself up. Both were as eager to explain the alchemy as Mustang was to learn about it.

"So...you somehow 'see' the flaws in the rock, Lance," the general mused. "But how does Laura know where they are, to repair them?"

"She sees them too, general," Lance amended. "She kind of, I don't know, rides piggyback when I go in." He flashed an impudent grin at the image, and Mustang returned a grin of his own when Laura rolled her eyes. "She sees what I find," the younger man went on, "and then she repairs it. I can see her do that too."

"We could actually switch around if we tried," Laura added. "But neither of us is as strong, doing the other task. Doing it the way we do is more natural."

Mustang steepled his fingers, pressing them against his chin as he analyzed the circle. "I can follow how it works, to a point. There's a lot of intertwining of the energies... Could one of you, alone, do both tasks if you had to?"

Laura glanced at her boyfriend, who grimaced. "Yes," she answered, "in theory. But it would be awfully draining."

"Not that it isn't already," Lance muttered.

"But anyway, general," Laura pushed herself to her feet, wiping dust from her leggings, "we'd better get back to work. Time for another section." She leaned over to grab Lance's hand as he sprang up beside her.

"You've hardly caught your breath," Mustang remonstrated. "Give yourself a few more minutes to rest." Hawkeye wondered if that was really why he'd sat down to chat: to give the two a longer break. Lance's face seemed to retain its greyish, weary tinge much longer than his fiancée's.

"I'd rather not," Laura answered. "We need to keep going, to get this done in time. Are you ready, Lance?" The two began to walk toward the new rock edge.

The general stood and followed them. "Really, it's not good for you to push yourselves – "

"We know what we're doing," the girl protested over her shoulder. "We've got some momentum, and shouldn't let it fade away."

"Laura," Armstrong put in, "perhaps the general is right. A few extra minutes shouldn't matter." So, thought Hawkeye. She wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

"What about you, Lance?" Mustang insisted. "You still look tired."

The young man hesitated, glancing back, then set his jaw. "I'm fine," he answered quietly. "I can do whatever Laura thinks best."

"Then Laura, don't force him to – "

The young woman whirled around. "Listen, Flame, why don't you mind your own business and just let us get on with our jobs? You don't see me trying to tell you how to burn things up, do you?" That stray lock of hair had fallen loose again.

"No, because I know the limits of my abilities, and nobody would have to. You're new to this, and you have to pace your – "

"I don't _have_ to do anything," she retorted. "That hole is just sitting there, and it's not getting filled up while we do nothing. It's time to get back to it, and get it done."

"And what happens when you exhaust yourself and you're incapable of doing any work at all?" he growled. "Are you going to put the whole project in jeopardy?"

"Nothing's going to be in jeopardy, so don't get all worked up. We just want to get this done. And we're going to. Don't get in our way!" She turned her back on him and continued toward the edge, Lance following with an apologetic glance.

"Lightstone, get back here! Are you always so stubborn, or is it just with me? Why can't you get it through your head that I'm trying to help you? When I tell you you're going to do something – or not do it – then I expect you – to – " Mustang stopped abruptly. He paused, gaze unfocused, as though listening to something nobody else could hear. Or perhaps, thought Hawkeye, remembering something.

The girl again looked over her shoulder, puzzled this time at his sudden silence.

He sighed. Then said more calmly, "Never mind. You're going to do what you want, anyway." His lips curled in a private smile. He seemed to be looking through her. "Just don't push beyond your limits, all right? You either, Heartstone. You won't do any good if you cripple yourselves, remember that. Take care." With a wry glance at Armstrong, who chuckled back, he headed down the street the way he had come.

"Well," Laura pronounced, "it's about time he backed down. Maybe he'll pay attention next time I tell him something."

Armstrong focused his benevolent gaze upon the young woman, and murmured, "He wasn't thinking of you at all, child. You remind him of someone else. But you'd do well to listen. He does have experience in being pushed to almost fatal exhaustion. He'd rather spare you that, if he can."

Hawkeye left the three stone alchemists behind and hurried after Mustang. She found him leaning back against the car, arms folded. He smiled as she approached. "Almost like old times," he chuckled.

"You haven't had that sort of argument for at least a couple of years," Hawkeye agreed.

"Though Ed did get in a couple of good digs while we were trying to get into that invading ship," he amended. "I should be wearing the patch over my mouth instead of my eye...something like that. Nothing had changed." The smile gradually faded. "Damn, I miss that kid, Hawkeye."

"We all miss those boys. It would be nice to think we could see them again one day."

"If there's some other way it can happen, I don't know about it. And I'm about to destroy the only way I do know." The man probably didn't even notice the wistful undertone to his words. But now he slapped both hands against the side of the car. "Anyway, there's nothing we can do about that. Time to get back to work."

A few days later, Mustang and all his primary subordinates met with the overseeing committee from the parliamentary assembly. The gap was now two thirds repaired, and the inner three rings of explosives had been almost completely laid in the underground city. In only another week or so, the two outer rings would be finished, and the closing of the gap above would be complete. It was time to report on everything that had been done, and to finalize plans for what would follow the destruction of the gigantic transmutation circle.

They met in a warm, rather stuffy college classroom, smelling of old wood and polish, and musty books. The committee members sat on student benches behind long, dark wooden desks extending the length of the stepped rows of the room. They looked down at the brightly lit lecture floor where Mustang sat at a long table with his people, an arrangement that allowed every member of the rather large committee to ask questions and see the people answering. But as she sat at the general's right hand squinting at the shadowed rows of people above them, growing warmer and warmer and wishing she could open a window to relieve the stuffiness, Hawkeye wondered if it wasn't also designed to remind Mustang who was really supposed to be in charge here, as the interrogators loomed over the responders.

It didn't work, whatever the case. He maintained his usual clipped courtesy, but began the meeting himself, calling on his team leaders one by one for their reports. And he continued to control the discussion for the entire meeting.

Hawkeye's report took some time, since she not only needed to account for the evacuation efforts (which, she estimated, were 80 percent complete), but to discuss plans for bringing everybody back afterwards. She, Havoc, and Scieszka had already started working with a subcommittee of this one, drawing up a schedule for who should come back first.

Armstrong's report should have been quick and straightforward: they now had all the stone they needed from the quarries, and more, so the stone alchemists' job would soon be done.

"But are you absolutely sure that the ground is safe when it's been rebuilt?" interjected a councillor in one of the upper rows of desks, the bench creaking under him as he shifted. His face was hard to discern, but a shock of white hair marked him among his companions. "There's a lot of empty space underneath it. We need to be sure."

Even as Armstrong opened his mouth to reply, Laura answered instead. "You can be sure," she replied crisply, "because Lance and I have designed it to hold. We create a lattice as we work, patterned after the sort of molecular lattice inside a diamond."

Mustang leaned forward to peer around Havoc on his left. "That strong? That's a lot of work."

"What does this mean, Mustang?" demanded the councillor.

The general nodded at Laura, and she elaborated. "That's where the internal bonds of the stone are so interconnected, right-left, up-down, and criss-crossing, that even if a few bonds are broken here and there, there are so many other bonds that the structure as a whole would be virtually unaffected."

"Which means," Lance added cheerfully, "that it's going to be more solid than it's ever been. It will be almost unbreakable."

"Then I wonder," the councillor mused, "if we could make the whole cavern roof unbreakable, and not bother destroying the circle down there at all…"

Mustang leaned back in his chair, frowning, folding his arms across his chest. "That would require the two of them to work ceaselessly, for several years, on the foundations under the entire city. Not only would it take years that we don't know we have, but I suspect it would drain and likely kill them eventually. For that reason alone, I will refuse ever to authorize such a project. Meaning we continue as we have been." He set his hands back on the table, turning now to his right, looking past Hawkeye. "Major Cash, let's hear your report now."

Though Cash's task was relatively simple compared to all the others, he was questioned the longest of anyone. As he began, he folded his hands carefully on the table, facing the worries, repeated questions, and outright fear with a calm confidence that went a long way in itself toward allaying the fear. He kept notes and maps at the ready, poised to answer everything as patiently as possible.

When a couple of questioners had difficulty grasping how the rings of explosions would work, he grabbed one of his maps and walked up the steps to one of their desks, slipping between rows so he could lay out the map and explain diagrammatically as well as verbally. Within moments, people left their seats and crowded around him, peppering him with questions as he pulled out a pen and used it as a pointer, or used it for extra diagrams.

The people at the main table sat forgotten for the moment. Mustang grinned at Hawkeye as he tipped his chair onto its back legs, his arms again folded across his chest. At the other end of the table, Lance followed suit and nearly tipped himself over, his arms windmilling frantically until Laura grabbed the back of his chair and righted it. Firmly.

"So the force goes inward?" asked one councillor

"Yes," Cash nodded, bending over his map, his stocky form disappearing behind the crowd leaning to follow his reasoning. "Here's how it will move..."

"There'll be a reactionary force, though, won't there?" asked another councillor, a few moments later. "That will go up toward the roof, surely."

"Oh yes," came the calm answer. "But it won't be as strong. I'll show you why..."

At one point, he hurried back to the table to grab some notes. For a brief instant, he met Mustang's gaze and his lips curved into a smile, before he stepped back up the rows to the desk where he'd laid out the map.

Hawkeye saw the general's hand move to Havoc's forearm, and heard him murmur, "You found us the best man, Jean. Good work."

When Cash had answered all the questions he could, it was Armstrong's turn again. He outlined the plan for the stone alchemists to go over Central after the blast, testing that the ground remained stable and secure. Fuery and Falman now spread their own maps on the front table and, with Cash's help, showed where the most vulnerable areas would be, and addressed how they would work with the alchemists to test them, until the entire city had been certified safe.

Mustang himself said little during the meeting, apart from calling on his people for reports, and occasionally rescuing them from a heavy grilling. Usually he sat, chin on hand, looking down the long table at whoever was speaking, listening intently. He glanced a couple of times at Hawkeye, favouring her with a proud smile. She agreed with his unspoken sentiment: the team had never worked better together than this, or accomplished so much in so short a time. Hearing it all described at once made it absolutely clear: this project was simultaneously a work of great efficiency, and a stunning work of art. And they had created it together.

Once, near the end, the committee Chairman asked, "Do you have any suggestions to add to Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong's recommendations, general?"

"None," Mustang smiled, eye downcast. "When it comes to stonework, he and the others are the experts, and they, with Major Cash and the rest of my people, will finish everything. I'll have done my own job, and then they'll complete theirs."

The meeting adjourned, all agreeing that everything was in order and proceeding properly. Most committee members would now make their own way out of the city, with only the Chairman and a few others staying behind until, as one of them joked, "the bitter end." Hawkeye grimaced at the remark, then chuckled reluctantly as Havoc grinned at her behind the Chairman's back.

Everyone returned to their tasks and their separate schedules, and for three days more, the work went on smoothly.

Then Lance Delacoeur collapsed from exhaustion in the middle of a transmutation, and spent three days recovering in the one wing of the hospital that remained open. He probably could have been sent home the same day, but hospital administration received word from On High (meaning a certain Roy Mustang) that the young man was to be detained longer, to regain his strength completely.

The news of Lance's collapse came into the office late in the afternoon. After making a call and having a long talk with the doctor in charge, Mustang dropped everything else and commandeered Hawkeye to help him run a few errands. By the time they arrived at the hospital room, it was almost suppertime, and they found Laura sitting at her fiancé's bedside, holding his hand.

As Mustang and Hawkeye paused in the doorway, the young woman regarded them warily. After a brief hesitation, she ventured, "So, general. Have you come to gloat?"

"Actually," he replied, producing the large bag he'd brought with him, "I've come with soup. I know from experience that hospital food isn't the greatest. So I asked my friend Gracia if she could help, and she happened to have just made a big batch of chicken soup."

She really had, too, planning to take several containers with her when she left the city in a few days. Hawkeye smiled to herself as she settled onto a chair by the door, remembering Gracia's enthusiastic bustling half an hour ago, as she poured soup into a large glass jar while Elysia climbed the step stool to get two bowls and two spoons for "Uncle Roy." Said uncle now stepped further into the room and set the bag on the end table by the bed, pulling out the jar, a ladle, and the bowls and spoons. "I thought you'd like some too," he smiled at Laura. "Now, Lance. Tell me how you're doing."

The young man yawned, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back luxuriously against the massive pile of pillows propping him up. "I'm fine, General Mustang," he drowsed. "I had a nap after they brought me in, and I think a good sleep tonight will fix everything." Already, after his long nap, there was more colour to his lean cheeks than they'd seen there for several days.

"Very good to hear," Mustang said, ladling out the first bowl. The soup poured in, large chunks of chicken, carrots and onion bobbing in a thick, golden broth swirling with herbs and noodles. He set the dish on the movable table that swung over the bed, while Lance pushed himself into a more upright position against his pillows.

As the man filled another bowl and passed it to Laura, she hesitated again. "This is...very nice of you, general."

"I'm afraid it's cooled down a bit on the drive over," he commented.

"Oh, that doesn't matter – " Lance began, but the older man shook his head.

"No, it won't do at all. Hold on." Mustang pulled his gloves from his hip pocket, snapped them on, and cupped his hands around Lance's bowl. The alchemic circles on the backs of the gloves glowed for a few seconds, and wisps of steam began to rise from the soup. He repeated the performance for Laura as well, as she balanced the bowl on her lap. "There. Better."

"I don't know what to say, Flame," she said. "You're being awfully nice after I was so snotty to you the other day. Especially after you were proven right."

"Laura," he amended softly. "I didn't say those things just to be 'right'. I don't want either of you killing yourselves over this. That's not your job, and I'm not asking it of you. I just want you to do what you can, and take care of yourselves. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, general," Lance murmured.

"I do now," Laura acquiesced. Then, when Mustang regarded her quizzically, "What?"

"I don't believe it," he chuckled. "Laura Veber, meek as a lamb?"

"Today, anyway," she smirked, dipping her spoon into her bowl. "Don't get used to it."

The aroma of steaming chicken, herbs, and vegetables gradually permeated the room. Hawkeye ignored a hunger pang as she watched the two young people devour their meal in silence, reminding herself sternly that she would be making her own supper soon enough. Mustang, meanwhile, sat on the corner of the bed, leaning his hands back on the mattress. He watched for a moment, then wondered, "Did this really take you by surprise, Lance? Or did you sense it coming on, and keep pushing yourself?"

The young man paused, lifting his spoon from the bowl and holding it aloft, contemplating the drips. "Well," he answered slowly, "I...get sick sometimes. I don't always have the greatest stamina."

"He doesn't tell me when he's starting to fade." Laura narrowed her eyes at him.

"You're so strong," he shrugged, as though that explained everything. "And you need me there if you're going to rebuild the stone properly. I just...you know...I don't want to fail you."

The two shared a long, eloquent look. Laura took the spoon out of his hand and set it back in the bowl, then twined her fingers with his. "I know you don't," she murmured. "And you know I just roll along, without noticing anything. You always forget, you're supposed to give me a good slap when I roll over you like that."

"You know I don't do things that way," he smiled, a light flush creeping up his cheeks.

"Yes. And look where it gets you. Eat your soup," she added, pulling her hand away. As he obeyed, she turned back to the general, picking up her own spoon again. "You see," she said, "we're not really cut out to be in the military. Lance doesn't care for the lifestyle and you may have noticed that I don't take kindly to being told what to do." She grinned wickedly and Mustang laughed.

"I've begun to get that impression," he drawled.

Laura laughed in her turn. "I never had you pegged as such a good sport."

"Good sport? You've never seen me arguing with Edward Elric."

Lance exclaimed, "Fullmetal? That's right, you were his commanding officer. I'd love to have seen that. I mean, not the arguments, but the two of you working together. That must have been something – Flame and Fullmetal, together."

Mustang cast a wry glance back at Hawkeye, who raised an amused eyebrow. He remarked, "It would have been even better if we didn't work at cross purposes most of the time, and if he wasn't running away from me the rest of the time. But Laura, you were explaining how the two of you aren't cut out for the military. You decided to be certified as State Alchemists anyway. Why?"

"The library," she answered promptly. "The research. Who else has a library like the State Alchemy program? We just had to have access to it."

Hawkeye shook her head, remembering. Edward had had the same reason for becoming a State Alchemist. There was something, she mused, a little skewed about the way things were arranged, if the only way alchemists could get proper training was to put themselves under the thumb of the military.

"Laura didn't really want to go for the certification," Lance supplied, "but I said we had to. We've always gobbled up the alchemy books, since we were kids. I knew we'd regret it forever if we didn't get at this library. I have to admit she's right, though...I really don't like actually _being_ in the military. It's not so bad now that the wars seem to be over..."

"Unless we get more invasions like the one we just had," Laura interjected with a grimace.

"Well, that, yes," Lance agreed cheerfully. "But if there's nothing else like that, it might not be so bad. I don't know what we'd do if someone wanted to send us into a war and use us...as..." His voice faded as he met the general's impassive gaze. Again the flush tinged his cheeks.

Mustang straightened on the bed and bowed his head, contemplating his still-gloved hands. It never really went away, Hawkeye reflected, no matter how much time passed or how many other concerns intervened. Over and over, things always circled back to this. Sometimes she ached for him, watching him dragged back to it, again and again. He regarded this as some sort of penance, but surely there was a limit to the price he was required to pay?

A rueful smile flickered briefly on his lips. "You're right," he murmured. "You really don't want to be used as a weapon of war. I don't think I've ever known an alchemist used in war who didn't come back...damaged."

"But not..." Lance hesitated, then ventured gingerly. "Surely not...you too?"

A short silence. "Especially me." The general took a long, slow breath, glancing at Hawkeye with a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to his rapt young audience. Even Laura had dropped her spoon into her bowl, the soup forgotten. Mustang told them solemnly, "That's not going to happen to you. Don't even let the thought cross your mind, either of you. When this project is done, you're going to be free to do all the research you could ever want, and you'll never have to...," the merest catch in his voice, "...kill anyone."

Laura whispered, "Do you really think the parliament will be able to keep the peace, then? Permanently?"

"They've got a very good chance of doing that. But I'm going to make sure it won't matter for you, one way or the other," he answered. As the girl continued to stare at him, some troubling thought drawing her brows together, her lips opening as though she wanted to speak, he prompted gently, "What is it, Laura?"

For some reason, her dark eyes swelled with misery behind the black frames of her glasses. "General Mustang...I don't want you to be upset with me. I – I don't want to ask, but – "

"Fuhrer Bradley," he breathed.

Sometimes he made these intuitive leaps, like he could read a person's deepest thoughts. Laura lowered her gaze as though ashamed that he'd guessed what was on her mind, and Hawkeye's throat tightened in fear. He should not have mentioned this. He should have found a way to divert the topic.

Mustang said softly, "Bradley was a homunculus. He spent years destroying entire nations, using the deaths of thousands of people to try to create the philosopher's stone."

Laura's sharp gasp cut the air, as Lance blurted, "You mean – just like – like the people in the underground city?" The young man had paled, eyes haunted with memory.

"Exactly like that," Mustang nodded. "Multiplied by hundreds of thousands."

"How could he?" Lance rasped. "How – how could he do it? And _how could our own people help him_??"

The general leaned over and placed a firm hand on Lance's forearm resting on the table beside his soup bowl. "Let it go, son," he said. "It's over. I ended it. I killed him."

"General Mustang, that's _enough_!" Hawkeye cried, leaping to her feet.

His shocked eye flew to her face. Lance's gaze darted from one to the other, until he ventured, "Sir...?"

Mustang whispered, "Hawkeye...I..."

"Are you trying to give them a reason to execute you?" she demanded, through the suffocating tightness in her chest. "Is that how far you'll go in your search for absolution?"

"Nobody will do that!" Lance burst out. "Because I won't tell anybody. I'll never say a word about this. Never!"

"And neither will I." At last Laura lifted her gaze, tears in the corners of her eyes. "Havoc was right; I see what he means now. You _are_ a good person. And I'll never betray you. I promise."

He received the declarations in silence, and Hawkeye wondered, a little desperately, how he would extricate himself from the awkward situation. She should have kept her mouth shut, but she'd hardly known she was going to speak till she found herself on her feet. She'd only made it worse. Yet these alarming little breaches were happening too often, lately. What was wrong with him?

He leaned back on his hands again, lazily stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. "Look at the two of you," he remarked with a deceptively casual air, "still taking on burdens you don't need to carry. This is not something you need to worry about. Your support means a lot, and I'm grateful. But just take care of yourselves for the next three days, and everything will be fine. You are not to worry about me or anything else. Understand?"

Lance swallowed, then assured him, voice shaking, "I'll do whatever you say, general."

Laura hesitated, still searching the general's face. Hawkeye felt a sudden surge of sympathy for her, always struggling with the protective barrier she'd erected around her true self. At last she used a move with which the lieutenant was very familiar. "Whatever," the girl said with a shrug, picking up her spoon again. "I still think three days is much too long to sit around and do nothing."

Mustang grinned, and the last of the tension dissipated. "Not nearly long enough," he said. "Barely time enough for Gracia to help me build up this guy's stamina again. But we'll try. And now I should leave you to the rest of the soup, and to your evening. Laura, be sure to get some sleep yourself, okay?"

She made a rude face at the idea, till a sudden thought sparked into her eyes and she shifted gears. "This Gracia person," she speculated. "Is she your girlfriend or something?"

He laughed and got to his feet. "Why Laura," he drawled, "I do believe you're fishing. And I'm not going to be caught. No, she's the widow of my best friend, and Lance merely gave me a good excuse to drop by and say goodnight to her daughter Elysia before bed-time."

"Visiting the lady for food, and making sure to say goodnight to the little girl...I don't know. Sounds like girlfriend material to me," Laura said impudently, and Lance guffawed.

Hawkeye was determined to keep her eyes fixed on the wall opposite the door, but her resolve faltered as Mustang turned a long, rueful look upon her. At last she met his gaze, and their eyes held. But when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Laura shift in her chair, and realized how intently the girl was watching, she stiffened and turned briskly to the door. "I'll drive you home, sir, and return the car to the garage. They'll be closing soon, so we'd better get going."

He replied to her retreating back, "Of course. Thank you. And goodnight, you two. Sleep well tonight, Lance."

Hawkeye was already out the door as the two alchemists returned the general's goodnights, and she heard his footsteps speeding behind her to catch up.

"Why are you angry?" he demanded.

"I'm not. It's nothing," Hawkeye answered tightly.

"Funny. That's the same thing you said as you drove us to Bradley's estate that night..."

She stopped so abruptly that he almost ran into her. An orderly approached, pushing a rattling cart of supplies, and she stepped aside momentarily. Fists clenched at her sides, she glared at Mustang and hissed as the orderly moved past them down the hall, "That's not funny at all. And this is nothing like that night."

He had the grace to duck his head sheepishly. "All right, that was a stupid comparison." He sighed and held his hands open, his eye searching her face with an intensity that unnerved her. "Riza. I know what I'm doing. Can you not just trust me a little longer?"

"The thought that you know what you're doing," she answered, around the hammering pulse in her throat, "is the most frightening thing of all." She turned and stalked away without another word, past the nurses' station and several patient rooms, toward the exit and the waiting car.

---

"...and there they were," came Mustang's voice from inside the office, "face to face with the wolves, and I was placing bets with myself about whether they or the wolves would run away howling first!"

Havoc encountered general laughter as he stepped into the doorway. With all work virtually finished and the big explosion tomorrow, the denizens of the office were already elevating into party mode, anticipating the dinner at the club this evening. He saw the general at the far end of the room, his own chair pulled out of the inner office, a foot placed on its seat and one arm leaning on his knee while he gesticulated with the other hand. Breda and Fuery chuckled at his story, from their seats huddled together behind Fuery's map-covered desk, while Falman stood at Breda's shoulder, leaning a hand on the desk as he grinned. Cash had deposited himself in Falman's chair, feet up on one corner of the desk, while Ross perched on the other corner. Hawkeye, as always, sat at her own desk, smiling as she perused several charts.

Mustang noticed the newcomer and drawled, "Why, Lieutenant Havoc. How good of you to join us."

Havoc grinned around his dangling, unlit cigarette. "Relax, general. I know I'm late checking in, but I have a good excuse." He stepped inside and added, "We have some visitors."

A small girl burst into the room, rocketing across it, squealing, "_Uncle Roy!_"

Mustang barely had enough time to get his foot off his chair before Elysia Hughes was upon him. He swung her up into his arms, her light brown pigtails bouncing. "Hi there, kiddo," he laughed. "I didn't think I'd get to see you again."

Gracia Hughes, entering rather more sedately, chided, "Elysia, mind your manners! Sorry, Roy, she's excited about our trip in the morning. Darling, why don't you get down and let General Mustang get on with his work?"

"Oh, I don't mind, Gracia – " he began, but broke off abruptly as Winry and Scieszka followed her into the office. Winry met his gaze and offered a diffident smile before looking away again, quickly. "Hello, girls," the general said more quietly.

"Hi, general," Scieszka grinned. "I needed to deliver these last reports, and Winry was taking care of Elysia, so we all decided to come with Gracia. Hope you don't mind."

"We've come at a bad time, haven't we?" Gracia fretted. "You all look busy."

"Don't believe it for a second," Havoc told her, parking himself on a corner of Hawkeye's desk, arms folded. He winked over at Ross. "If there's one thing this lot is good at, it's looking busy."

"Would you like a chair, Mrs. Hughes?" Breda was halfway to his feet.

"Thank you, but...," she smiled at him before turning back to the general, "actually, Roy, I was hoping to talk to you about something. But if you're busy, I can wait till all this business is over."

All levity vanished from Mustang's face. "No," he said, peering sidelong at her with a little frown. "If you need to talk, we need to do it now. Why don't you come into my office?" He stood aside and motioned toward the door.

"I'm coming too, Uncle Roy," Elysia informed him.

"No dear," Gracia glanced back. "I need you to stay with Winry and Scieszka for a minute, all right? We won't be long, and then you can say good-bye to the general."

Mustang paused in his office doorway, giving the girl a tight hug. "Just a few minutes, okay?" he promised. He made as though to set her back on the floor, but paused to kiss her, closing his eye and pressing his lips for a long moment to her forehead.

He drew back, and the girl patted his cheek. "You're nice, Uncle Roy," she said. "I like you."

"You're pretty nice yourself, sweetheart," he murmured. "I love you, kiddo."

As he finally set her back on the floor, Elysia took hold of the door knob, shaking an admonishing finger. "Just a few minutes. Then I'll come in and get you."

"Deal," said the man with a little bow. He obligingly stepped through the door, and she pulled it shut.

Ross glanced at Havoc and laughed. "'Uncle Roy'?" she repeated in delight.

He grinned. "I've always wanted to call him that."

Hawkeye remarked, not looking up from her charts, "As your last act on this earth, I presume?"

"Hey, Winry, are you really coming to the party tonight?" Fuery asked the girl, who still hung back near the outer door.

"Yes," she said. "Scieszka thought it would be fun, so we're both coming."

"How come I can't go to the party?" Elysia demanded, hands on hips.

"Because," Scieszka informed her, "it's a grownup party."

"That's right," Breda amplified. "And who knows what debauchery we might get up to – "

"That's enough, Breda." Hawkeye quelled him with a firm stare.

Havoc glanced over his shoulder, down at her charts. "How are we doing?" he asked.

"We're right on schedule," she said. "We need to hear from four more sections of the city, and everything's done on the surface." She examined one of the charts more closely, and frowned. "One of the people who's yet to check in is Carter."

"As in, Carter who's handling the details in this very building? He should have been finished this morning."

"Yes. I may go down there in a while, and see what's holding him up."

"But aside from these four, that means all that's left is the final check on the explosive lines tomorrow, before the big blowup," Havoc said. "That's pretty impressive. We really are on schedule."

Winry held out her hand to Elysia. "You know what?" she said. "I think it's better if we wait in the hall for a few minutes, so our friends can finish up."

"No, you really don't have to go," Fuery began to protest, but already Winry was leading the youngster to the door.

"We'll see you all tonight anyway," Scieszka reminded him.

"That's right," Havoc grinned at her. "We want to get finished here so we can give you our undivided attention tonight." He laughed as her cheeks reddened, but she made an impudent face at him and followed the other two girls into the hall.

He picked up another chart, the one with checklists for operations in the cavern itself, and began to run his eyes down the sheets. Ross leaned over and explained a couple of items to him, and he heard Fuery sigh in resignation as the three men at the other table got back to work, coordinating their schedules for the final underground check in the morning. Cash swung his feet off Falman's desk and went over to join them, and after a moment, Ross followed.

And then, gradually, another voice began to insinuate into Havoc's awareness. He hardly realized at first that he was eavesdropping again, until he noticed that Elysia hadn't quite latched the inner door. It had crept open a few inches, and the conversation inside now began to float out. The people at Breda's desk were too far away to hear, but Hawkeye's desk was much closer.

"...you know I just can't accept this, Roy," came Gracia's murmur.

"But why not?" Mustang's quiet protest followed. "It's something I really want to help with."

"I know, but it's too much. You know Maes left me and Elysia well provided for. You didn't need to set up an education fund for her, even though it's a sweet gesture."

"It's not merely a gesture," he answered. "I know you're provided for already. But if it hadn't been for me...Maes would still be here, and you wouldn't be thinking about pensions and education funds or anything else."

"You know you don't have to make anything up to me," she said softly.

"I bear the responsibility for what happened to him." The reply left no room for contradiction.

Havoc bent over and picked up another chart, venturing a quick glance at Hawkeye. She maintained her usual calm, as intent as ever on what she was reading, nothing on her face revealing whether or not she had heard.

He commented, "I suppose we should finalize the reassignment of the surface crews to the underground work for tomorrow."

"Yes," she agreed, "I've already begun to move some of them. We just need to notify the team leaders." She pulled out yet another chart and began to point out the details.

Gracia said quietly, on the other side of the door, "Anyway, Roy. You should think of your own future. Surely you'll need this money yourself one day, to set up education funds for your own children."

Hawkeye's finger hesitated for the merest instant as it moved through the list. Then it continued smoothly down the page.

Mustang spoke so quietly, Havoc had to strain to hear. "I won't need that. I won't be getting married, Gracia. I know Maes would be irritated about it if he were here," there was a smile in his voice, "but that's how things are going to be. I have money, and I can't think of a better thing I could do with it than this."

Hawkeye pushed her chair back and stood up. "I think I'll check on Carter," she said briskly. "If there's a problem in this building, we'd better find out now rather than later." She picked up a clipboard and a pen, and walked toward the door.

Havoc hesitated. Until he heard Gracia's sudden exclamation, "Roy! The door's open!" and then the general's muffled curse. The door slammed shut with a bang, and every head in the room lifted in alarm.

Havoc wheeled about and stalked out of the office.

He and Riza had gotten to know Gracia quite well, two years ago. She'd often joined them, bringing soup and sandwiches, as they held vigil at Mustang's bedside in the hospital. Havoc hadn't always managed to be there, but every time he arrived for an evening, he'd found Riza at Roy's side; she simply refused to leave. And almost always, Gracia sat in a chair beside her, holding Riza's hand and sharing her grief, as they waited for him to fight through the pain and delirium and return to them. If anyone on earth understood the complex relationships both Havoc and Hawkeye had with Roy Mustang – and, he admitted to himself now, the love – it was Gracia Hughes.

He could only imagine her horror at this moment, realizing what Riza had probably heard, sitting just outside Mustang's door.

The cool air in the dimly lit outside hall enveloped him; the heat in the building was off now, and the lights turned out till people began to return next week. He waved at the indistinct figures of the three girls waiting there, but didn't stop. Footsteps reverberating off the closed doors of empty offices, he pursued Hawkeye, at last finding her halfway down an adjoining hallway on her way to the stairwell. He grabbed her arm to stop her. "Listen – Riza – I know you heard what I did – "

"It doesn't matter. It's none of my business," she said calmly. Light from the late afternoon sun slanted over them from the window beside the stairwell entrance, casting an almost orange glow over the conversation.

Havoc shaded his eyes. "I'm not too sure of that. You two were so close, right after – "

"That was two years ago," she interrupted, "and he was very vulnerable. Things are different now. And he's still my commanding officer, which makes other considerations irrelevant."

"I don't know, Riza..."

"Stop this, Havoc. We don't have time for it. I need to check on Carter. Besides which," she added, eyes glinting a warning, "that discussion in there was none of our business. Not mine – and certainly not yours." She pulled her arm loose and grabbed the handle of the stairwell door.

"But don't you wonder," he said suddenly, to her back, "when he had time to arrange that education fund?"

She paused, half-turning to regard him. "What do you mean?"

"Almost everywhere he goes, he has one of us driving him. But I never took him anywhere to set this up – did you?"

"No."

"Which makes me wonder why he thought he should keep us out of it. Even feeling what he feels for you – "

"That's enough, Havoc."

"Riza. You know he does, even if he can't let himself say it. But this isn't like a secret love affair that he'd want to hide from you. His feelings for you shouldn't mean he'd have to keep Elysia's education fund secret. The two things don't have to exclude each other. But he didn't let either of us know."

He'd gotten her attention now, he saw. Her eyes narrowed as she looked back, not really seeing him, but puzzling out the questions he'd raised. The sunlight struck orange sparks from her hair as she tilted her head, deep in thought. "And I suppose," she added slowly, as though reluctant to speculate but unable to help it, "that means there could be other things he's keeping from us."

"I've been wondering about that for weeks now," he said.

She had focused on him again. "So have I," she admitted at last.

"Don't you feel like there's more going on than we know about? It's like..." Havoc wrestled with the inchoate thought, searching for a way to express what had nagged at him for so long. "It's like the reasons for what he's doing here are completely different than what we think they are. And I'm trying to decide if that's dangerous or not, and I just can't figure it out."

"And...what could we do about it anyway?" Hawkeye murmured. "That's the problem." She paused, as though she might say more, finally drawing back into herself, shaking her head. "But it can't matter, and it doesn't change anything, Jean. If there's something we need to know, he'll tell us eventually. In the meantime...Elysia's education fund is still none of our business. And we have a job to do. Which I'd like to get on with now."

"You're right," Havoc muttered to himself, as he watched the stairwell door close behind her. "None of our business. Maybe." He turned back the way he had come.

But almost immediately, familiar voices drifted around the corner. He recognized Elysia right away, with Winry and Scieszka answering, and other adult voices in the background. Mustang was obviously escorting his visitors part of the way out as they left. Havoc found a recessed office door just a few feet from the junction of hallways and pressed himself into it, hoping they didn't see him in the shadows as they passed this hall. Hoping even more that they didn't turn into this hall themselves.

He was lucky. They passed by, the younger women first, with Elysia bouncing between them. "But why _can't_ I go to the party?" she insisted, yanking at Winry's hand.

Scieszka couldn't seem to stop giggling, while Winry tried valiantly to explain, "You'd be so _bored_, Elysia, there wouldn't be any toys..."

"But I want to _go_!" the young girl whined. "It's not fair!"

The girls moved across the opening, Elysia's pleas and Scieszka's giggles fading

gradually as they went down the other hall. And now the adults approached the hall crossing, walking more slowly as they talked, probably to keep from being overheard by the girls. Havoc grimaced in the shadows, wishing he were somewhere else, and didn't keep finding himself in this position.

"You're not being very kind to her, you know," he heard Gracia chide her companion.

"I'm sure Riza knows it's not a slight to her, that I wanted to set up this fund," Mustang defended himself.

"That's not really what I'm talking about, and you know it, Roy."

A resigned sigh as the two of them emerged into Havoc's sight line, Mustang's arm encircling the woman's shoulders. "I realize that," the general said. "But I'm being kinder to her than you know, Gracia."

"Will you at least speak to her, to clear the air?"

"It's really not wise right now. You'll see what I mean, when all this is over. But I've done something else that...," he shrugged awkwardly, "...I hope might make things up to her. I promise you'll understand. Afterwards."

They passed the hall opening, and slowly their voices, too, trailed away. Havoc stepped out of his hiding place and stared at the gaping emptiness where the two hallways met. Only slowly did he realize that his entire body had gone cold as ice.

_What the hell was the bastard up to?_

He mustered the will to lurch back toward the office, fighting with every step against the urge to race after his superior officer, slam him up against a wall, and yell, "What are you doing to Riza, that you have to 'make up to her'??"

She'd given so much to this man – god, Havoc remembered her face at Roy's bedside two years ago, drained of colour and expression, only her eloquent amber eyes drowning in anguish with every cry of pain that came from the bed, straining for every small hope, absorbing every livid gash on the man's body and the terrible head wound that threatened his life for weeks – sometimes Havoc had feared for her almost as much as for the suffering man. Roy couldn't betray that devotion – he just couldn't! It just wasn't possible. Surely?

If Mustang did anything to hurt her – after everything they'd been through together, the three of them, after all Hawkeye's sacrifice and faithfulness – Havoc swore he'd – he'd –

He'd what? Riza had been right, at least, that whatever Mustang had up his sleeve right now, they couldn't do much about it till he told them what it was. They were just hours from the culmination of the whole project, and they couldn't do anything to jeopardize it now. They had to get on with it, and finish the job, and leave all other considerations till afterward.

He had the horrible feeling that this was exactly how Roy wanted it. For some reason, the thought sent a chill down his spine.

But duty called. They had to get the four final check-ins before finishing work for the day. If they could get everything done before the dinner party this evening, they could go through the very last preparations tomorrow without being in a rush.

Havoc was busy sending notifications to ground crews, about shifting to help underground crews tomorrow, when Mustang returned. The man gave no indication that he knew anything might be amiss, breezing carelessly past Havoc's desk, negligent fingers trailing along the edge as he passed. He stepped into the inner office, leaving the door open, and phoned Armstrong for a final consultation. Meanwhile, another ground crew leader checked in to say that her section of the city was secure against tomorrow's explosion. That made only three they hadn't heard from, and Hawkeye was finding out about one of them right now.

As Havoc gave Cash, Breda, and Ross the lists of above-ground crews who'd be under their supervision in the cavern tomorrow, Hawkeye returned to the room, as impassive and efficient as ever. "Everything's fine in the basement," she declared. "Carter was just going over everything for a third time, since this building is so important."

"Good," Havoc nodded, schooling his face into a similar impersonal expression. "Just two left. No – make that one," he amended, as another of the ground crew leaders walked into the office.

Within moments, the last ground leader had checked in, and had been given the new assignment for tomorrow. All other messengers had been dispatched and returned with acknowledgements. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be in the morning, and were prepared for the final assessments.

"That's it," Mustang announced, emerging from his office after making his last call to the president. "It's all finished but the last inspections below, and then," he snapped gloveless fingers, "the big boom." He surveyed his entire crew and smiled. "Excellent job, all of you. But now it's time to forget all this for a few hours, and enjoy ourselves. Be at the officers' club by seven, and plan to have a good time. You've earned it. Be sure to dress nice, children," he added, and strode out of the room.


	6. A Night Out

_NOTE: I realize this chapter is very long, compared to most of the others. I hope that's not too troubling; since it's all one event, with everything flowing organically I didn't think it could really be split up. I thought people would still enjoy just having a pleasant evening with all these characters. So I hope you enjoy this nice break, before the final events sweep us away again! - Miskcat_

**------**

**Chapter 6 – A Night Out**

Havoc had never been inside this officers' club; it was reserved for the highest bigwigs and their guests, and he didn't yet qualify to enter on his own. But as he strode down the tree-lined walkway and lightly hopped up the front steps of the small brick building, he found two smiling women in black uniforms waiting inside the door to take his coat, and then a black-tuxedoed official led him immediately up a wide, carpeted stairway to the second floor. His footfalls made no sound as he climbed, running one hand along the smooth, polished balustrade.

Broad, heavy doors swung open before him, and Havoc stepped into a room that was exactly what he'd have expected of such a place: a large dining room paneled in warm, polished wood, etched glass lamps in ornately curling brass sconces along the walls, and a burgundy carpet so plush he sank into it with every step. In one half of the room, a long table draped in pristine white linen sat surrounded by high-backed chairs of heavy, dark, carved wood, with brocaded seats and brocaded insets in the backs and arm rests. A huge fireplace took up a third of the wall beyond the table, its mantel of gleaming, sculptured marble surmounted by a painting of the Central military headquarters building. Three huge, deep leather arm chairs had been arranged to either side of the fireplace.

A dance floor occupied the other half of the room, a raised dais at the far end with space for public speaking or a band of musicians, with a phonograph in a cabinet at one end. At the near end of the dance floor, along the wall beside the door, stood a long wooden bar with polished marble top, the racks behind it filled with only the finest spirits. Everything an officer might want for a private party.

Three white-clad waiters already stood at the bar, poised to fetch drinks for people as they arrived. The staff of the club, Havoc knew, were scheduled to depart to an estate in the country first thing tomorrow, staying tonight only at General Mustang's request (and incidentally getting paid very well from Mustang's own pocket). As with the coat checkers below, there was no sign on any of their faces that they were to leave their homes in the morning, not knowing whether they'd ever return. Their professional demeanour was impeccable.

A few people had arrived before Havoc, and all had tried to dress up for the place. He himself hadn't had a chance to wear his specially tailored navy suit in a while, and was rather proud of how he looked in it, if he did say so himself. Though if anyone ever guessed that he had momentarily preened when he put it on, running his hands down the jacket and admiring the cut and the long, clean lines of his body in the mirror, he thought he'd sink through the floor and die.

Hawkeye noticed, of course. The moment he walked into the room, she came forward with an appreciative smile, carrying a glass and waving at a waiter to come over for the newcomer's drink order. Havoc in his turn emitted a low whistle at the sight of her. She had chosen a simple, sleeveless, red cocktail dress for the evening, and for a change, wore her hair down. His gaze moved slowly from her black heels, to the dress, to the gold jewellery at wrist and throat, and the gold of her hair, and he smiled in open admiration.

"Lady," he grinned, "you clean up pretty nicely. Scotch and soda, please," he added an aside to the waiter.

She laughed. "You're not too bad yourself, Jean. I'd say everyone cleans up nicely, in fact." She lowered her voice. "I have to admit, though, that Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong is a bit...overwhelming."

Havoc glanced toward the fireplace where the big man, decked out in a black tuxedo complete with red satin cummerbund and glittering gold studs and cuff links, loomed over the rather ordinarily brown-suited Reg Cash – probably the only man present who wouldn't be intimidated at finding himself in that position. Havoc fought down the urge to burst out laughing. "Put the guy in tails and he'd look like an ambassador," he muttered. "Maintaining the family tradition passed down the Armstrong line for generations..."

Hawkeye gave him a little punch in the arm, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. "You're very bad."

"I try." He did a double-take as Maria Ross strolled by in a slinky, backless green cocktail dress.

Hawkeye, damn the woman, never missed a thing. "Go ahead, Jean," she murmured with a knowing smile. "Tonight's your chance."

He resolutely refused to budge. "Forget it," he snorted. "I'm not getting snarled up in fraternization rules. And besides, you and I both know who would just swoop in and take over as soon as I showed any interest. So what's the point?"

She took a sip of her drink, eyes sparkling at him over the glass. "No, he wouldn't," she said.

"What? Not swoop in? Yeah, right." The waiter returned, bearing a glass on a small silver tray, and Havoc took it with a nod.

"No, he's not doing that any more. He says he's retired."

Havoc stared at her. "You're kidding. Is he sick or something?" He joined in her laughter, but sobered up immediately, voice lowering. "By the way…you all right? I didn't mean to worry you, earlier. I just get questions running through my head and…" He shrugged.

"Don't worry, I'm fine. And I've decided to forget everything tonight. The general is right, this party is meant for celebration. So let's worry not worry about anything until tomorrow."

"Agreed." Havoc glanced at the couple who now approached them: Lance and Laura, both in black, the young man in a short, tight jacket and dress pants, his arm around the shoulder of his fiancée in her own short, tight-fitting dress. Her hair hung loose tonight, swinging just above her shoulders, a gold band glittering on her forehead with tiny red jewelled pendants dangling from it.

"Hello there," Lance greeted them. "For once I don't feel so weird, not being in uniform. Everyone looks like a human being tonight."

"Thank you," Hawkeye replied dryly. "I think."

"Oh!" His mouth fell open, cheeks turning pink. "I didn't, that is, I didn't mean – "

"What I want to know," Havoc interrupted, "is whether either of you has ever heard of colour."

"What?" Laura challenged with a narrow smile. "You don't think this looks good enough, lieutenant?" She detached from beneath Lance's arm, held her arms out, and turned slowly. Yes, the dress was very tight-fitting, long-sleeved but low cut in back and front, and every curve and contour looked...good. So good. Short she might be, but those high black heels, that tight skirt...her legs suddenly seemed very long...

Havoc took a quick drink, dragging his eyes away. Her boyfriend was right here, dammit! "Yeah, okay," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Colour would probably distract from the, er, effect you're looking for."

"It would," the girl agreed, flashing a knowing laugh at him as she slipped back under Lance's arm.

Ross drifted back toward the group, trailing Fuery, Falman, and Breda behind her, the men looking like an odd set of fraternal triplets in almost identical black suits. Havoc again swallowed the laughter that threatened to erupt from him. Instead he murmured to Ross, "You look great, Maria."

"So do you," she smiled.

Breda squinted over Havoc's shoulder at the dance floor. "I'm glad that's there," he said. "I heard we might have the chance to dance, so I brought some records, since we have six women here tonight. Laura, what do you say? Do the rest of us get a turn on the floor, or will Lance monopolize you all night?"

"I might let you have a turn," Laura laughed, "if you grovel."

He grimaced. "It won't matter. The general will probably take the lion's share of dances anyway."

Havoc met Hawkeye's eyes, and the two burst out laughing. And as though on cue, the doors swung open again, and Scieszka and Winry were ushered in, followed by Mustang himself, with Gracia Hughes on his arm.

"There, see, Lance?" Laura murmured. "I bet that's the woman who made you the soup. She looks like girlfriend material to me, hanging on him like that."

Gracia was positively elegant in a black, mid-length dress, one arm and shoulder bare, the other enclosed to the wrist. A diamond bracelet on the bare wrist matched the sparkling pendants at her ears and throat. With a deep pang, Havoc remembered Maes Hughes, on his last trip to East City, talking (incessantly) about the diamond jewellery he'd bought, to give his wife on their next anniversary. He'd died two weeks after giving them to her. Havoc wondered if she'd ever worn them.

He wondered if the man at her side had persuaded her to put them on tonight. He wouldn't be surprised.

Mustang was equally elegant, sleek and slender in a black tux. He wore it as though born to it, and would have looked great whatever the case, but when you added the patch slashing across his face, well…it created a mysterious, rakish aura about the man. Havoc chuckled wryly into his glass. As he'd often said, weren't they all just moths circling the Flame anyway? The only one imposing enough to give him any competition tonight might be Armstrong.

"Yep," Laura said, her eyes still on Gracia. "Girlfriend for sure."

Again Havoc and Hawkeye shared a look, before she lowered her gaze to her glass, lips twitching. He remarked, "Well, what about it, Breda? You going to let him keep those three women to himself? Time to put your money where your mouth is."

Breda rolled his eyes, but Fuery was already on his way toward the newcomers, attaching himself to Winry and Scieszka. Breda said sarcastically, "And you, Havoc? You gonna let Kain start monopolizing Scieszka?"

"I'm just fine right here," Havoc snorted, with a surreptitious glance at Ross. At Maria, he corrected himself. Tonight she was just Maria, and she did look awfully good in that little green number…

Mustang soon disengaged himself and Gracia from Fuery and the younger women, and drew near the others. Because he was watching for it, Havoc saw as his boss's gaze lighted upon Hawkeye, saw the instant of stillness on the man's face, and the swift catch of breath. But just as swiftly, it was all gone, and as he approached, the general's smile was as smooth and all-inclusive as ever.

"Good evening, everyone," he greeted them. "Gracia, these are two of the new members of my team, Laura Veber and Lance Delacoeur."

"Hi there." Lance did the usual twiddle of his fingers that constituted a casual wave. "You make great soup."

"Thank you. Very nice to meet you two," Gracia said, shaking hands with Laura. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm glad to see you've both survived all the work this man has put you through."

"Now now, Gracia," Mustang chided, "Slave driving is good for the soul."

"Ours, or yours?" Laura snorted.

"Oh, mine, naturally," he assured her with a maddening smirk. Then, as Havoc had expected, he ramped up the charm. "Ladies, you're all so beautiful tonight, I'm almost breathless. We men don't have much imagination, I'm afraid. Except you, Jean, you handsome devil. At least you're not in black."

"You do look wonderful tonight, Jean," Gracia murmured.

Dammit, he was blushing, he knew it! Havoc could tell from Laura's gleeful grin, if not from the heat rushing up his cheeks. Mustang could turn him into a drooling idiot in ten words or less, the suave bastard. This was going to be another one of those evenings, he could tell –

Except, he decided suddenly, straightening his shoulders. Except, not this time, thank you very much. He _did_ look good in this suit – damn good. He took a deep breath. "You give me the first dance tonight, Gracia," he suggested, raising an eyebrow, "and I'll show you just how wonderful I am." Because if there was one thing he did well, by god, it was dance. Even Mustang couldn't best him at that.

It was Gracia's turn to blush, diamond bracelet flashing as she self-consciously pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ears. Laura openly gaped at his audacity. Of course, he realized, she thought he was making moves on the general's girlfriend. Well, let her think that. Maybe she had underestimated him too.

"I think," Gracia said, "that I may just do that, Jean."

"Damn," Mustang drawled. "I've just lost my big chance. Eh, Laura?" He smirked at the girl's confusion, before raking both Havoc and Hawkeye with his lazy, slightly malicious smile.

Havoc had to laugh despite himself. But for just a moment, he could have sworn he caught something else glinting in the boss's eye as it paused on his face: _approval_.

What the hell...?

The stragglers slowly drew nearer and joined the larger group, and the fourteen of them stood and chatted for a few minutes, as the waiters mingled unobtrusively among them, refreshing drink orders as needed. Havoc fell silent, eventually finding himself at the edge of the group, just listening to and enjoying the murmur of conversation all about him. He gently swirled the liquid in his glass, admiring Scieszka in her rust-coloured dress and Winry in navy blue. (_See_? he thought. _It's a great colour for blond hair_.)

Then a quiet voice murmured in his ear, "So much beauty, it's hard to choose, isn't it?"

"Should I choose?" Havoc murmured back, not turning to look at the general. "What if I want to pursue all of them?"

"Then you should," Mustang replied. That jerked Havoc's head around, involuntarily. The man stood companionably at his shoulder, watching the others. "I mean it, Jean," he added softly. "Your time to shine. Although," he added, with his sidelong smile, "you might get more opposition than you expect if you go after Laura too strenuously."

A sudden flash of memory intruded itself: Mustang and Gracia, walking down a hallway that afternoon, discussing someone who wasn't there. With a stab of unexpected irritation, Havoc asked, further lowering his voice, "And what if I want to pursue Riza instead?"

Mustang's breath caught, the shock exploding onto his face before he could prevent it. He masked it swiftly, lowering his gaze to the hand that gripped his glass perhaps a little too tightly. He stood rigid and unmoving at Havoc's side. "Then," he whispered, "by all means you should do so, of course."

"And I'd get no opposition? From anyone?" Havoc demanded through clenched teeth. He'd always understood the realities of the situation as well as Roy and Riza did, but for some reason, this just felt different. He couldn't prevent the anger that suddenly stabbed through him.

"You appear," the general said with surprising calm, still staring into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass, "to have chosen tonight to torment me with this. I wonder why." The ice clinked a little, colliding with the sides of the glass.

Havoc's anger quickly frayed away into mortified regret. He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "Roy – I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for, and downright mean. I guess I just get frustrated on your behalf sometimes."

Mustang's lips twitched into a wry smile. "You're a good friend, Jean. Better than I deserve, certainly. And a far better friend to Riza than I've ever been allowed to be." He cast a speculative glance at Havoc's face. "I wonder if you've ever realized how much you've helped us stay sane."

"I've never thought of it that way," Havoc shrugged awkwardly, ducking his head.

"I'm sure you haven't. Just one of the hundred ways you've always underestimated yourself."

Havoc's eyes flew to his face. It was almost as though the guy had been reading his mind earlier. "I...well, I don't know about that...," he stammered.

"Tell you what," Mustang said. "Let's forget everything tonight. We'll just be ourselves as much as we can, and leave the rest till tomorrow. What do you think?"

"I think," Havoc said in a flood of relief, "that that's a great idea."

"Good." With a quick squeeze of his shoulder, the man turned and raised his voice to be heard above the ambient conversation. "Everyone, shall we move to the table now? I think it's about time. You'll find name plates set out for each of you."

The crowd made its way to the table, everyone milling about as they pulled out the heavy chairs and searched the names on the small cards at the base of each place setting. Havoc found his spot quickly, between Maria on his right, and Riza on his left at the end of one side. He drew out Maria's chair, pushing it back in as she settled into it, and for a moment his gaze rested on the dark fringe of hair at the back of her neck, and the smooth skin of her bare shoulders. He dragged his eyes away, turning toward Riza, but Roy was already there at his side, pulling out her chair for her.

For a moment, their eyes met: Mustang's and Hawkeye's. He smiled warmly, drawing an answering smile from her, before she seated herself. He pushed the chair in, resting his hands briefly on her shoulders, fingertips touching the fall of her golden hair. Whatever unease Hawkeye might have felt from overhearing his comments to Gracia that afternoon, she either masked it very well, Havoc thought, or it had dissipated in the relaxed atmosphere the general was creating for them.

Mustang moved around the end of the table to seat Gracia on his left, returning then to sit in his own chair, while Armstrong took the corresponding chair at the other end of the table.

Along the left side, after Gracia, sat Fuery, Winry, Cash, Scieszka, and Breda. On the right side, seated after Maria, were Lance, Laura, and Falman. Havoc noted with amusement that while the sides of the table nicely alternated male and female, it was Mustang who ended up with women to either side of him, and Armstrong who was flanked by two men. Some things were absolutely predictable, whatever other strange moods the boss might manifest.

Havoc touched his fingers to the cool white linen tablecloth, examining the array of plates, glass, and cutlery before him. The large white china plate and its accompanying butter plate were entirely plain, but for a thick line of gold around their edges and a finer gold line inside that. The plates were surrounded on three sides by various arrangements of gleaming knives, forks, and spoons, and surmounted by a coffee cup in the same pattern as the plates. To the right of the cup, two wine glasses and a champagne flute marched in line at an angle above the knives and spoons. In the centre of each plate, propped against an elaborately folded and fanned burgundy napkin, stood a small white menu framed, like the dishes, in twin lines of gold.

At several points down the middle of the table stood centrepieces consisting of three thick white candles of varying heights in the midst of gold plates of fresh flowers. The candles stood taller than the wine glasses, but not so high that the diners couldn't see each other and talk across the table.

Again Mustang raised his voice so everyone could hear. "You see the menu cards. If I might recommend it, the salmon at this club is magnificent, but everything here is delicious, really."

Another general murmur, as everyone consulted the menus. When Winry, frowning at the table, whispered, "What are all these dishes _for_," Gracia made as though to lean across Fuery to help, but that young gentleman was already whispering in Winry's ear, explaining the purpose of each plate and glass and piece of cutlery. Poor kid, Havoc mused in sympathy. She'd probably attended few formal dinners back home, if any. He hoped she didn't feel too overwhelmed tonight. He'd had a hard time learning all this himself, raised as he was in a small town in a family of storekeepers. Fuery was a good guy, though, and seemed to be helping. Meanwhile, further down the table, Scieszka was waving around what appeared to be a pie fork, having said something that set Breda laughing, while Cash looked on in amusement.

Mustang, still contemplating his own menu, remarked more loudly than he needed to, "Lieutenant Havoc, I suggest the oysters as an appetizer. You might have need of them before the night is over."

Which set Breda veritably howling. Which set everyone laughing, in fact. Havoc rolled his eyes and groaned, "Very, very funny." He didn't dare check whether Maria – or Scieszka – or, even, god help him, Gracia – were looking at him.

The three waiters took everyone's order and glided silently through a door at the far end of the bar, to fetch the first course. Mustang leaned back in his chair and smiled down the length of the table. "I hope you'll just relax and enjoy yourselves this evening. You've been working very hard. Though it's probably not a good idea to relax so much that you end up with a hangover tomorrow."

"That's right," Cash agreed. "Not a good idea to handle explosives with a hangover." He leaned casually on one arm of his chair, a relaxed smile lightening his normally sober face.

"You've had experience with the problem, I take it, major?" Mustang inquired.

"Since I'm currently alive – no. Not personally," Cash quirked an eyebrow, and the general laughed.

Breda remarked, "Maybe we should have waited till after the job was done, to have this party."

"That might have been an idea," Mustang nodded thoughtfully. "But I have a surprise or two that I wanted to share tonight. You can head to a tavern for another celebration after you're finished tomorrow. I've heard the last tavern-keeper has stayed in the city, so there'll be one available venue at least. You'll probably need that sort of evening a lot more by then."

The waiters soon returned with the opening soup course, setting the wide bowls onto the plates in front of each person, soft wisps of steam curling slowly up from each bowl. Havoc had ordered the mussel and saffron bisque, and as he dipped in his spoon and gently took his first sip, he thought he could taste a hint of coconut as well. Saffron and coconut weren't tastes he'd grown up with, but he'd learned to like them while on leave in eastern cities during the Ishbal campaign.

For a short while, the only sound was the clinking of spoons in bowls, and the subdued slurping of soup. Silence grew like a tangible thing, settling over everyone like a fog and becoming more and more awkward, until Havoc began to feel the urge to squirm in his chair. His gaze wandered down the table, past Winry and Cash, both studiously staring into their bowls. He found Scieszka's eyes glinting at him in amusement, as though she could sense his discomfort. She looked around at the other diners, and blurted, "So Laura and Lance, just when _are_ you getting married, exactly? Or are you, really?"

"Oh now," Falman began, "that's a bit private, isn't it – "

Mustang interrupted, "Good question, Scieszka. Do tell, you two."

Now things began to loosen up again. The general had never maintained a tight ship, except when really necessary, so most of the people at the table found it easy to chat fairly casually. The temporary restraint imposed by the formality of the setting began to disperse, and soon the group was laughing and talking as easily as though they sat around the desks back at the office.

The waiters returned, to clear the soup away and go for salads. Mustang further enlivened the mood by exclaiming, "I forgot!" He pulled an ignition glove from a pocket and slipped it on, as Havoc and Hawkeye glanced at each other in alarm. The general stood, focussed his narrowed eye down the table, then snapped his fingers. All the candles in the centrepieces ignited in quick succession, small flames leaping with a swift _whoosh_ down the table, a burst of warm air sweeping past the faces of the onlookers and ruffling their hair. The flames settled immediately, and no one was singed. The diners burst into applause, Mustang responding with an exaggerated bow before taking his seat again.

Havoc murmured into Hawkeye's ear, "I've seen him do that sort of thing hundreds of times, but the precision always gets me. I still expected him to set the tablecloth on fire by mistake."

"Good thing he's so precise, isn't it?" she murmured back. "He'll need that kind of accuracy tomorrow."

For a moment, Havoc considered the distances involved in what the general would have to do tomorrow, wondering how they might affect his precision. But Ross leaned over to ask him something, and he dismissed the thought.

Salads arrived, and tongues around the table continued to loosen, as Havoc again fell silent and just listened for a while. Candlelight glinted from cuff links, ear rings, and cutlery as the conversations flowed. Breda and Laura bantered across the table, egged on by Scieszka, while Ross and Fuery seemed determined to draw Winry out and make her more comfortable.

Cash and Lance compared notes about the composition of rock and their different means of altering it. They were an interesting duo, Havoc mused: Lance the more scattered and less stable, and Cash the older, more solid and dependable. Yet Lance was the one who altered stone by careful, deliberate means, while Reg blew it to profligate bits. They shared a weird kind of reverse symmetry.

Meanwhile, Mustang took it into his head to begin teasing Havoc again, until halted by a judicious and well-placed kick in the shins from Hawkeye. At least, that's what Havoc assumed, when the general began another joke at his expense, but shut his mouth with an abrupt sort of bark, darting a pained glance at the woman. She remained unperturbed and seemingly oblivious, calmly lifting her salad-laden fork to her mouth.

Havoc could have kissed her.

He focussed for a moment on the current conversation between Ross and Winry. "How is your grandmother?" Ross asked the younger woman.

"Oh, as feisty as ever," Winry answered. "I'm doing more of the actual business now, but she still oversees things." The girl absently tucked a hanging strand of gold hair behind one ear.

Ross nodded. "She still has a lot to teach, doesn't she?"

"I've started making her write things down," Winry answered. "I want to keep all her knowledge going, even after she eventually...you know."

"She's still in good health, though?"

"Oh yes. Her friends from town have started coming by, a couple of evenings a week, to play cards. They reminisce about old times, and I sit and listen while I tinker. It's a lot of fun."

"It's a nice place to do that," Ross smiled. "Remember, Jean, how comfortable everyone was, sitting around the table and talking half the night? It felt like we were on vacation."

"You've forgotten, Maria," he shook his head. "Kain and I weren't there."

"We were sent back to Central just before that," Fuery supplied, "after that little accident with Ed's automail."

"'Little accident'," Havoc snorted, idly shoving a chunk of tomato around his salad plate. "He had his automail hand around the end of my gun, and something startled me and it went off." He set down his fork and flexed his hand, remembering the severe bruising.

Cash glanced sharply at him. "I hadn't heard that. How's the hand these days?"

"Oh, it's fine. It was just kickback from the gun. Kain was in more real danger, it turned out."

"The bullet ricocheted and grazed my head," Fuery nodded, absently rubbing the scar on his forehead at the edge of his hair line.

"Ed was always so careless." Winry pursed her lips. "I constantly had to fix that arm, he abused it so much."

"I used to want to ask if he'd show me how it worked," Fuery mused, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. "But the two of them were always in such a hurry to go somewhere else, that I never really got a chance."

"Well, you're in luck now, aren't you?" said the girl.

"Why is that?" asked Fuery. Then, at the incredulous expressions around him, "What? What did I say?"

Havoc snorted. "Did you leave half your brain at home tonight, Kain? Winry _made_ the automail, idiot. You can ask _her_ how it works."

"Oh!" The dawning light in Fuery's face was almost blinding, as was the wave of red that crept up his cheeks. "Oh Winry – sorry – I wasn't thinking – sorry, Havoc's right, I'm completely stupid – "

"It's all right, never mind," she laughed. "Kain – just ask, already!"

As the two of them launched into an in depth discussion of the inner workings of automail, Ross leaned over and murmured in Havoc's ear, "If any other woman said 'Just ask already', it would probably mean something completely different."

He disguised his laugh as a cough, covering his mouth with his hand. Behind his fingers, he muttered back, "I don't know about that, Maria. For automail mechanics like her and tech wizards like him, I think that's almost the equivalent of foreplay." He yelped as Ross gave him a little punch on the shoulder.

After removing salad plates with swift efficiency, the waiters returned to the room bearing the main courses. Havoc had decided on the chicken stuffed with grilled asparagus, roasted red peppers, and goat cheese. As the meal was set before him, on its elegant gold-trimmed china plate, the aromas rose up in a mouth-watering assault: the rich subtlety of the asparagus, the sweetness of the peppers, and the tart cheese to complement them. It was so heavenly that Maria leaned against his arm, just to take it in. He rather liked the weight of her shoulder against his.

"I might have made a mistake," she breathed, "just going with the beef and shallot sauce."

"Maybe we can share," Havoc suggested.

Mustang had ordered the salmon as expected, and several others, including Gracia, had followed his recommendation. Hawkeye, though, had chosen the breast of duck with raspberry sauce.

Lance burst out, "This table smells so good right now I feel like I've died and gone to paradise."

"You have indeed, my friend," the general smiled down the table. Fresh wine had been poured for all of them, and he sat comfortably back in his chair, leaning one elbow on an arm rest and gently swirling his wine with the other hand. "Delicious food is one of the great joys of life. We must create nights like this for ourselves as often as we can; they make it easier to deal with less pleasant times."

As Havoc picked up his knife and fork, he surveyed his fellow diners once more. The candles cast a softening glow on all the faces, and the last vestiges of worry or concern about the work they'd been doing all these weeks seemed finally to have faded. He saw Winry watching Mustang, brows drawn together in contemplation, as he inclined toward Gracia and murmured a quiet comment, then chuckled at some reply Hawkeye offered in return. Farther down the table, Cash nodded, slicing into his beef filet, as Scieszka explained something with animated gestures, the tinkling sound of cutlery on plates providing an almost musical accompaniment.

And farther along on Havoc's side, Laura was – figuratively speaking – opening a small can of worms. "Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong," she suggested, lifting a forkful of salmon to her mouth, "why don't you tell us a bit about your family?

Immediately Breda groaned. "Oh, don't get him started, Laura. You don't know how he goes on about the great generations of the Armstrong family."

"Don't I?" Laura repeated, eyes glinting. "I've been working with him for weeks." She closed her mouth around the salmon and closed her eyes, smiling in pleasure.

Armstrong's eyes crinkled with humour. "I assure you that Laura and Lance have been most appreciative listeners, Lieutenant Breda."

Lance guffawed. "Yes we have. For weeks and weeks. The things I could tell you about Major-General Robert Henry Alexander Armstrong and his heroic stand against a surprise attack from Drachma when treaty negotiations weren't going in their favour. The Major-General was our Lieutenant-Colonel's great-great-great-great-great grandfather."

"One less 'great'," Armstrong remarked, and Lance hooted at him.

"The two of you," Breda asserted, with feeling, "are a lot more patient than I would have been." He took a gulp from his wine glass.

"Oh, I don't know," Falman mused, "genealogy can be a very interesting subject."

"That's because you're a walking encyclopedia," Breda snorted.

"And anyway," Laura remarked, delicately skewering another forkful of salmon, "we were something of a captive audience, if you know what I mean." Her eyes twinkled at Armstrong, who beamed back at her.

"And I happen to think," Scieszka put in, "that it's rather useful to be a walking encyclopedia."

"Thank you," Falman said. "In fact, studies have shown – "

"No!" Breda cried. "Have mercy! No studies tonight!"

"You can tell me later, Falman," Scieszka assured him.

The tastes mingled: earthy, mellow asparagus, perfectly cooked chicken, tangy goat cheese. Havoc savoured every bite, chewing slowly, almost blissfully. He didn't know how he could bear it, it tasted so good. By god, he wanted to become one of the bigwigs just so he could come to this club again!

At the head of the table, Mustang, Hawkeye, and Gracia were immersed in discussion.

"...it's something I've been thinking of for a while, but I don't know if I'd have the time," Gracia mused.

"I think you should do it, Gracia," Hawkeye answered. "A flower shop sounds like something you'd really love. I think you're a natural."

"You are," Mustang agreed, leaning back again, pausing to sip from his glass of wine. "Remember the first time we met? Maes brought me to dinner at your place before you were married. I remember noticing all the gardening books on your shelves."

Gracia smiled fondly. "Yes, I remember. But the gardening has always been just a hobby, and it's not like I need extra income." She took another bite of her dinner, chewing thoughtfully. "I guess," she said at last, "I need to weigh the work involved against the free time I'll have with Elysia starting school. Of course, it could be too expensive to set up anyway."

Hawkeye's eyes narrowed in speculation as she considered the problem. "I wonder what sort of loan you might need, just to get started. And if it did well, you could hire a helper eventually, and not have to work quite so hard." A spark of candlelight flashed from her fork as she took another bite of the breast of duck.

"You know Elysia would love to help as she grows up," Mustang nodded. "And I'm sure a small loan can be arranged. I hope you'll consider it seriously." His gaze rested in turn upon his two companions, then wandered down to where Fuery and Winry were still engrossed in the intricacies of automail.

Fuery had almost forgotten to eat, clutching his knife and fork but holding the utensils neglected along the sides of his plate as he spoke, cheeks flushed with animation. "All right, I understand," he said, "but those gears and connections can't move without electrical impulses. Do automail limbs have batteries?"

"No, you see, that's the beauty of it," Winry answered, absently waving her fork around in emphasis, "it's all connected straight to the nerves; that's the whole power supply. You just need to eat a little more to maintain the energy levels."

Well I'll be, Havoc mused, chewing slowly in contemplation. There was actually a good reason for Ed eating so much all the time.

But Fuery was intent on something else. "The nerves!" he exclaimed. He had set down the utensils, his meal entirely forgotten now. "That's all? Are you serious?"

"Yes, nothing would move without that; you just have to give the bearings a little oil now and then. But that's also the worst part of the operation, because the patient has to be awake when the connections – " Winry broke off at the sight of her neighbour's sudden alarm. "But never mind. Maybe it's not really a dinner topic."

"Winry," Fuery swallowed. The flush now stood out a stark and brutal red against the abrupt pallor of his skin. "How...how old was Ed, again? When he got his automail?"

Her eyes dropped to the salmon filet on her plate. "Almost eleven," she murmured.

"My god. I couldn't have stood it. I don't think I could stand it now. How could he do it? What a kid he was..."

They fell silent, each regarding their dinner in melancholy remembrance. When at last Winry lifted her eyes, they turned inevitably toward the head of the table, slowly as though dragged against their will, to meet Mustang's troubled gaze. He held himself still, as though subjecting himself to her judgement. But at last it seemed he could bear it no longer, and he turned his face away.

She watched him a moment longer, frowning thoughtfully.

The conversations continued as the diners finished their meal, and both Mustang and Winry gradually re-entered the discussions around them. All things considered, Havoc reflected, they seemed to be handling each other's presence remarkably well, given their history.

Shortly afterward, just before the dessert course, the general clinked his fork against one of his glasses until the group quieted down and he had their attention. "I think this is a good time," he declared, "to fill you in on some changes that are going to happen soon. The surprises I mentioned," he added, with a nod down the table at Breda.

"Oh good." The lieutenant tilted back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Birthday presents for everyone."

"Well, not quite everyone," Mustang chuckled. "But first things first. I'd like to announce that Lieutenants Hawkeye and Havoc will be promoted, both to the rank of Major, effective the day after tomorrow, after this explosion business is over and done with."

Havoc's stomach clenched in shock, so suddenly that he almost felt queasy. A promotion? After all this time? And _two_ ranks at once? He'd almost given up the hope of advancing much further, and suddenly – _two_ ranks? He kept repeating it to himself, trying to get it to sink in, hands clutching the rough brocaded surfaces of his chair arms.

A murmur of congratulation rose around the table and then, instigated by Scieszka, a round of enthusiastic applause.

"Sir," Hawkeye stammered, eyes wide in astonishment, "I had no idea – you never said anything – I don't know what to say – "

"Jean," Ross whispered beside him, "this is really wonderful." Scieszka was beaming down the table at him in sheer delight, while Cash, beside her, mouthed the word, "Bravo." And Fuery, directly across the table, was grinning at him, knowing how stunned he was at this development.

Havoc swallowed, shaking his head as he stared at his boss. "I'll give you this, general. You really know how to spring things on people. Thank you, sir. If you wanted to surprise us...well, you did the job. This is unexpected, believe me."

"Which was exactly the problem," Mustang commented. "These promotions should have happened long ago, as far as I'm concerned. I think," he added, his eye narrowing, "that they made you two pay for some of my mistakes. But I've rectified that now." He reached for his glass and raised it up. "A toast, ladies and gentlemen. To Majors Riza Hawkeye and Jean Havoc."

"To Hawkeye and Havoc," repeated the others, and drank.

The general leaned over, and Havoc heard his quiet murmur, "These are papers that I signed immediately, Hawkeye, without any reminding. Congratulations."

"Thank you so much, sir," she answered softly, voice slightly unsteady. "I'm honoured."

"And that," he went on, including Havoc in his glance, "was why I didn't take either of you with me, when I arranged everything. It was the same day I set up the education fund. I wanted to surprise you with the promotion tonight; I wasn't trying to hide what I was doing for Elysia."

"That's all right, general," Hawkeye assured him quickly. "That wasn't our business anyway – "

"It's as much your business as everything else I do, Riza," he shook his head.

Havoc glanced from one to the other and thought impatiently, 'So he knows we overheard. Fine, Roy, but that's not the only thing you talked to Gracia about. You're still not saying anything to Riza about that. I hope to god you do it soon.'

Mustang tapped his glass a few more times, motioning everyone to quiet down again. "As my next surprise," he smiled, "I'd also like to announce that as of the day after tomorrow, Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong will be leaving the military."

"Oh no!" Scieszka cried, whipping around to stare at the lieutenant colonel in consternation. "Why is that? Is something wrong?"

"Far from it," Armstrong shook his head. "I will be working with the government, but in a different kind of endeavour."

The general explained, "He'll be heading a new government agency, completely independent of the military and responsible only to parliament, that will seek out and train alchemists."

"The goal," the big man amplified, "is to help reduce the number of alchemists who are on their own, who might find themselves in the same kind of trouble that the Elric brothers did. But even those who train outside the agency will be able to register and access our resources, and receive help when they need it."

"We wanted," Mustang put in, "to remove alchemists from the direct control of the military. Both of us are determined to prevent their ever again using alchemists as weapons – or for any other military purpose, when it comes to that."

Breda emitted a long whistle. "That's impressive," he said. "I bet the military brass are furious. Did you really arrange all this since you got back to Central?"

"It's been finalized since I came back," Mustang answered, "but Armstrong has been talking to the government about it for two years. It's his accomplishment, though I helped give it the final push. Parliament were already uneasy about how alchemists had been used. And there's not as much dissatisfaction in the military as you might expect. It will be a long time before they can live down the fact that Bradley fooled them, and they helped him establish a dictatorship. I think most are relieved that they don't have to deal with the sticky problem of alchemists any longer. But even if they wanted to – we won't allow it. Ever again."

"Chief," Havoc said, "I think this is one of the greatest things the two of you have ever done. Congratulations, Armstrong. And you, too, Roy. Good luck with this."

"So tell me," Laura smiled at Armstrong, "will you be the one to give cute official names to all the alchemists now? Or will that be discontinued?"

"I think we'll continue," he answered. "But the names will be decided by a committee."

Breda snorted. "Oh, that'll make them interesting all right."

Mustang led them in another toast, to Armstrong's new position, wishing good fortune in the work. "I should also note," he added, "that this agency will work in cooperation with other governments. Xing has expressed interest already. And I have it on good authority that the first place our friend will visit, in the course of his new duties, will be Lior. Though there may also be personal reasons for that."

The others missed the import of this remark at first, until Winry gasped and burst out, "Do you mean – do you mean – _Rose_?"

"Now now," Armstrong said hurriedly, "Rose is a very good friend. But naturally my duties will be the primary reason – "

"Sure they will," Mustang drawled. "That's _exactly_ the impression I've been getting." He smiled impudently down the table at Winry, who couldn't help but laugh.

At the sight of the humour glimmering in Armstrong's eyes, Breda guffawed. "Why, you sly dog, you!"

"Do not get ahead of me, Lieutenant Breda," the man chided. "If such a thing develops, it will still take time. Nothing is certain, as yet."

"And you should know, Lance and Laura," Mustang interjected, "that this development affects you too. My final surprise. Effective the day after tomorrow, I've discharged you from the military, with honours. I couriered the papers yesterday to military command, in fact. Along with them I sent documents that transfer you simultaneously to Armstrong's agency, though they'll require your signatures to confirm, so you can refuse that transfer and become completely free agents if you wish. But you'll be interested to know that this new agency has been gifted with the entire alchemy division of Central Library."

Lance's sharp gasp made every head swivel in his direction, while Laura sat frozen at his side. They stared down the table at Mustang in stunned silence, Laura's face draining of colour so drastically that Havoc, leaning around to peer at her, thought she might need help. Lance's cheeks, meanwhile, gradually took on an excited flush, as though compensating for his fiancée's pallor.

"G-general," the young man stammered at last. "You – you really did this? I – I can't believe – "

"Didn't I tell you," came Mustang's gentle reply, "that you'd never have to worry about the military using you as weapons?"

"Yes, but – I never thought – I never dreamed – "

"You," Laura began hoarsely, and cleared her throat. The red pendants across her forehead shimmered as though trembling. "You were already planning this, when you told us that?"

"I was thinking about it, but that conversation settled everything for me. I wasn't going to rest until I'd gotten you out. I will never allow you to endure what Armstrong and I had to live through, as military weapons."

"Then we – " Lance still seemed dazed as his eyes travelled blankly over the faces around him " – we're free. Laura – we can do all our studying – but we're really, really free!" He emitted a sudden whoop, and leaned across to cup her face in his hands, planting a long, fervent kiss on her lips.

Breda laughed, "There you go, that's the way to celebrate!" And again a general cheering swelled around the table.

Havoc glanced back toward the general. In the midst of the loud enthusiasm around them, Mustang and Hawkeye had fallen silent, gazing at each other. Eyes shining, her smiling lips shaping Roy's name, Hawkeye placed her hand over his, resting on the white tablecloth. Mustang turned his hand until his fingers intertwined with hers, and they smiled peacefully at each other.

Havoc dragged his gaze away, drawing a slow, careful breath around the unexpected constriction in his chest.

"My friends." Armstrong now pushed back his chair and stood, his imposing bulk towering over the table. He announced, "I would like to propose another toast. To Roy Mustang, who has brought us together again. To a man who has overcome despair and adversity, and has inspired and led us well, through many difficult times. To a great man – and, even more importantly – to a man I will always consider one of my dearest friends." He held his glass aloft. "Roy Mustang."

As one, everyone around the table stood, lifting their glasses and repeating, "Roy Mustang." Fuery, beaming sentimentally, appeared on the verge of tears. Cash held up his glass with all the solemnity and dignity of a formal salute. Gracia smiled gently down, bestowing not only her own benediction, but bearing with her the approval of that other, who had lavished so much love on this man before departing the world. And Havoc saw as the general's gaze fell again on Winry Rockbell, standing with the rest of them, raising even her own glass in solemn tribute. At that, Mustang bowed his head for a moment, swallowing hard.

But then he picked up his glass and held it up in his turn, blinking away what might have been tears in his eye, and smiling down the table at Armstrong. "Yes," he said. "Thank you, all of you. Above all things – to great friendship."

While the others drank, the two alchemists remained as they were, smiling down the table at each other. There was a bond between them, Havoc thought with a pang, that no one else at this table shared, as intimate and intense and private as the bond between Roy and Riza. A bond forged in hell, yet one of the few truly great things that had come out of the massacres in Ishbal.

How on earth, he wondered, would everyone get back into casual party mode after all _this?_

But Armstrong had been raised in a wealthy family, and knew how to pick his moment. At almost the instant everyone began to subside back into their chairs, two of the waiters appeared again, bearing silver trays laden with everyone's chosen dessert, and behind them followed the third waiter offering coffee.

"Any more surprises, sir?" Breda called down the table, fork poised above a large slice of apple pie with ice cream. "Or can we just eat dessert now?"

Mustang remarked mildly, already sliding his own fork into his chocolate cheesecake, "Are you sure you really _need_ dessert, lieutenant?"

"He's got a point, Breda," Ross snickered.

"Hush, woman," Breda retorted, unperturbed. "You saw how hard I worked down in that cavern all this time. I'm almost a wraith."

"No," Falman corrected, "I think Lance and I have that covered," and Lance guffawed again, his spirit still sailing high after his own special surprise.

After dessert, Breda pushed back his chair, saying, "Now, let's get the phonograph going and scuff up that floor over there, people." He yanked Fuery's chair out, almost tipping it backwards, and dragged his hapless team-mate over to the record player on the dais. They opened the wooden lid and the carved cabinet doors, and fiddled for a few minutes with the dials and switches on the front panels. Soon the music of a well-known big band began to fill the room.

Mustang immediately stood, dabbing his lips a final time with his napkin before setting it beside his plate. "Since I've lost Gracia to Jean for this dance, I claim first dance with Laura. Lance, you'll have to wait. I'm still your commanding officer, and you'll be dancing with her the rest of your life." He strode around the table to Laura's chair, and pulled her after him onto the floor.

"Well then," Havoc remarked to Gracia across the table, "we'd better get out there and show those amateurs how it's done." He murmured to Ross before moving around the table, "Save a few for me too, Maria?"

"If you're lucky." Her eyes twinkled up at him.

Gracia muttered as she walked hand-in-hand with Havoc toward the dance floor, "It's been almost three years...I hope I haven't forgotten..."

"You'll do fine," he assured her, lightly caressing her smooth bare shoulder before sliding his hand to her back and pulling her closer. "The moves will come back pretty quickly; just don't think too hard about it."

He was right. The first song, although jaunty and full of trumpets, wasn't fast and didn't require anything strenuous from the dancers. After a couple of early missteps, his partner suddenly seemed to relax, as though it had all come back to her. Soon they were swirling around the dance floor, Gracia following his lead with confident, flowing steps, her light brown hair, glowing in the light of the wall sconces, framing a delighted smile.

Havoc, too, relaxed as the music seemed to take over his body, the bright trumpets and smooth trombones loosening tense muscles and releasing the last stresses of the past few days. The polished hardwood floor sprang under his feet, and he was perfectly aware of the elegant figure he cut as he danced with his own long-legged, sinuous grace. He had to admit that it boosted his ego to see the admiring glances that followed him and Gracia around the floor.

"Told you," he murmured in her ear. "You're doing fine." Roses, he thought. Her perfume suggested roses.

"Yes, you were right. And you weren't kidding, before, when you promised me you were a wonderful dancer."

"Well, I admit I was bragging a little," he chuckled. "But even the best dancer looks like an idiot without a competent partner. And you're far more than that. You should do this more often, Gracia."

"It really has been a long time."

"Tell you what," he suggested. "After this project is over, why don't you and I go out dancing once in a while? Just for fun?"

"Yes, let's do that," she agreed.

Four other couples gradually moved onto the floor: Lance with Hawkeye, Fuery with Winry, Scieszka with Cash, and Ross with Breda. Havoc had time to watch all of them as he and Gracia turned leisurely around together. Winry and Fuery kept to themselves in a far corner, dancing slowly, hands linked but maintaining a distance as they watched their feet. The girl probably hadn't done much of this, Havoc realized, beyond the occasional local dance in her home town. Kain was a good teacher, though, and he'd help her get comfortable. Breda and Maria had obviously danced a fair bit before this. The same with Reg and Scieszka.

Lance didn't seem very experienced, though, his long legs occasionally getting in each other's way, but Hawkeye was helping to smooth over his mistakes, and he gamely followed her lead, laughing. The kid was game for anything, wasn't he? He'd do well in Armstrong's academy, and Laura would help keep him grounded.

Which reminded Havoc... He searched among the other couples for Mustang and Laura, and found them, like Winry and Fuery, dancing off to one side. Laura didn't seem as uncertain on her feet as Lance, yet Mustang appeared to limit his movements to a narrower range than usual, maintaining a rather formal space between himself and his partner.

Havoc and Gracia swept around in a short arc, and others intervened briefly, so he lost sight of the two for a moment. But when he found them again, he realized that Mustang maintained the space between himself and Laura so he could talk to her, calmly and steadily, head bent so his shorter partner would hear. Yet she wasn't nearly as animated as Havoc would expect after the way she'd strutted her stuff before dinner. She listened to Mustang's words, falling dark hair obscuring her averted face, only the occasional flashing red glitter from the pendants on her forehead indicating a quiet, nodded reply.

She'd been so shocked at Mustang's announcement about her and Lance, and their sudden release from the military. Considering her early suspicions about the general, and the way they'd been turned on their heads in recent weeks, tonight's announcement had to have been the final stunning overthrow.

Havoc discovered that Gracia was also watching the two of them. When she realized he was looking at her, she smiled an apology. "I was distracted."

"So was I. It's hard not to be caught up in whatever he's doing, isn't it?"

Gracia laughed, a little wryly. "Well, he does need watching a lot of the time. I don't know if I've ever met a more fascinating – or more maddening – man."

Havoc threw his head back and laughed, giving her an extra little swing as the trumpets blared a short fanfare. "I think that's the best description of Roy Mustang I have _ever_ heard, Gracia."

"I have a feeling," she remarked, "that I'm probably paraphrasing Maes's descriptions. But look," she added as the music ended, bringing the first dance to a close. "I think she's going to be fine, don't you?"

They watched Mustang put his hands on Laura's shoulders, flashing his quizzical smile, and at last she lifted her head and returned it. He cupped her face in his hands and bent to plant a light kiss on her forehead, among the dangling pendants. He scanned the dance floor, finding Lance already hovering. With the merest tilt of his head, the general drew him over, placing Laura's hand in his.

Immediately he turned on his heel to stride directly toward Havoc and Gracia.

"All right, Lieutenant Havoc, you've monopolized my date for your promised dance. Now go find Scieszka or somebody; Gracia's all mine." The next piece of music began, a much faster number, full of blaring trumpets, and the woman's hand slipped from Havoc's fingers as Mustang swept her away across the floor. She laughed breathlessly back over her shoulder before disappearing within the new configuration of dancers.

Havoc had had his dancing appetite whetted now, and checked to see if Scieszka was free. She and Cash were continuing as before, though, so he touched Ross's shoulder, raising a questioning eyebrow. Breda bowed out gracefully, and Ross turned into Havoc's embrace. He noted with a little smile that Fuery and Winry were still in their corner, heads together, concentrating so intensely on their lessons that you'd think they were studying for an exam.

Breda had good taste in music for this sort of occasion. The big band album was lively, yet not so fast-paced that it exhausted the dancers or overtaxed their skills. The brass kept the blood flowing, while the clarinets and saxophones soothed the jarring edges. When that album was over, Breda selected a well-known crooner from southern Amestris. That slowed the pace a little, but by then the dancers needed it anyway. Havoc danced one slower dance with Hawkeye, then wandered off to refresh his drink. He'd seen Mustang with Ross a few minutes ago, but now the general was back with Gracia.

The party continued that way, alternating more lively band albums with slightly slower vocal tunes. There were longer breaks between albums sometimes, where most of the party-goers lingered along the edge of the floor and chatted, catching their breath. At one point, Breda and Falman decided to move the three arm chairs away from the fireplace and align them near the edge of the dance floor. Breda stooped in front of one and tried to carry it, lurching blindly like some prehistoric animal with a tough leather crest surmounted by four short, symmetrically placed horns. After he overbalanced, dropping the chair with a resounding thump and pitching head first into the seat, he and Falman decided to drag the chairs instead.

Shortly after, Mustang called for help to move the (now cleared) table too. Havoc leapt up from one of the chairs in response, but Armstrong had already moved to one end of the table. The big man picked it up almost single-handedly, muscles visibly bulging within the confines of his tuxedo. (For a manic instant, Havoc had a vision of the man flinging off the tux jacket and shirt, the better to heave the furniture in his bare-chested glory.) Mustang did little more than hold the table steady at his end, and together they set it in its new place near the dance floor, tablecloth fluttering. The general laughed down the table at his friend, and Armstrong bowed elaborately, eyes crinkling in mirth.

"There," Mustang said. "We've got somewhere to set down our drinks as we dance."

The hours moved swiftly along, as Breda worked through his music collection. Havoc made a point of trying to dance at least once with every woman there, though he hadn't yet managed to pry Winry from her devoted instructor.

When he finally partnered Laura, he found her more lively and confident than she'd been during the first dance with Mustang. The clear skin of her face had regained its healthy colour, and the cheeky glint had returned to her eyes. Her body was surprisingly muscular under Havoc's hands, making him wonder if she kept a set of weights in her quarters. A couple of times, she pulled a few moves that called on all his skills, slinking under his arm, twirling so that his legs almost became tangled. The pendants glittered like suppressed laughter across her forehead.

They spent some time devising entertaining ways to dance despite their height difference, some involving Havoc lifting Laura off her feet, occasionally higher than his shoulders, and swinging her around. She was heavier than he expected, too. Yep, she must have a set of weights stashed somewhere. Meanwhile, when she danced at ground level, he took pleasure in the way she had to crane her neck to look up at him; that black neckline really plunged, and it was hard not to follow the plunge into dark, scented, inviting territory. But he reined himself in, kept his eyes where they belonged, and chatted about inconsequential things. A few moments later, he followed her gaze when it wandered over to Mustang and Ross, dancing nearby.

Havoc didn't realize he was going to speak, until he blurted, "I told you, didn't I?"

She knew exactly what he meant. "Yes you did," she admitted frankly. "He's a great guy after all."

"When he's not irritating as hell," Havoc added.

"Oh yes," Laura smirked. "That too. But you know it's just an act."

"Actually, I know a couple of people around here," Havoc replied, eyebrow raised, "whose irritability is just an act."

The young woman looked up into his face, all the usual challenge absent from her companionable smile. "Yes," she agreed. "You do."

A little later, he stood near the chairs with Cash, and they watched the others for a while, chatting quietly. It had grown warm in the room by now, and Cash had opened the doors to allow some circulation. Both of them had removed their ties, a couple of their shirt buttons undone.

"Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves," Havoc remarked, his long fingers absently stroking the cool leather top of a chair back. "It's been ages since we did something like this. In fact, we never did anything this elaborate, even in East City before things went dark for so long. So it's about time."

Cash stood in silence, stocky form unusually hunched with his hands in his pockets, his sober grey eyes moving slowly back and forth as the dancers swept by. "Yes," he answered finally. "It's good that you're having this party. You've all earned the right to enjoy yourselves tonight."

"_We_ have, Reg. You've almost worked harder than anyone. You deserve a reward for what you've done, probably more than the rest of us."

The man turned to him abruptly, an unsettled expression in his usually calm eyes that made Havoc's heart lurch. But the current song had ended, and at that moment Mustang strolled up to them, as cool as though he'd just stepped out of an ice box. He clapped Havoc on the shoulder, fingers squeezing slightly, and remarked, "Get out there, Jean. I think Scieszka would enjoy a dance."

Havoc rolled his eyes. "You know, boss, last I checked, I was an adult and could choose my own partners." But he found himself walking toward Scieszka as the next song began, the general's laughter harrying him from behind.

The girl did seem to be waiting for him, though. She came willingly into his arms, her lightly freckled face shining with pleasure as the music of clarinets surrounded them and carried them gently around the dance floor. The soft rust of her dress drew flecks of the same colour from her dark brown eyes, so they appeared to sparkle in the warm glow of the wall lamps.

She was as short as Laura, but comfortably followed his lead with lively steps. He suddenly realized that the awkward, bumbling girl he'd first met after Maes Hughes's death had become a self-assured young woman. A lot of the change had occurred just in the past few weeks, her self-esteem buoyed by everything she'd accomplished on their big project. Even the way she held her head was different...not ducking down or hunching between her shoulders like she used to.

He was so glad he'd recruited her to help. Probably one of the best things he'd ever done. He'd loved working with her, and was proud of how she'd grown.

She endured his scrutiny for a while, then broke into his thoughts. "Are you having a good time, lieutenant?"

"Very good. And I don't even need to ask if you are," Havoc replied, adding with a smirk, "Reg dances very well, doesn't he? Or are you dancing with him so often because he's a great conversationalist?"

"Both," she twinkled. "He's a very interesting person."

"Seriously? You have that much in common?"

"No. That is, we don't know much about each other's work, but it's so interesting finding out about it. And I bet you didn't know how funny he is."

"Actually, I do. He just doesn't show it unless he's really at ease. He must feel very comfortable with you, Scieszka."

"Well, we do seem to be able to talk. I like that."

Havoc surveyed her again for a few moments in silence, enjoying the warmth of her in his arms, and the rhythm of her body against his as the music flowed around them. She felt so good, moving with him like this. She'd always been such a lively, uplifting person, and he enjoyed being in her company. Yet now, it seemed... "I guess I've lost my chance, then, have I?" he asked softly.

Briefly she resembled the girl she'd been, eyes flickering in surprise, a light blush creeping over her cheeks. She began to duck her head, as though to shrink into herself, but abruptly lifted it again, an audacious sparkle invading her eyes. "I'm not married to the guy, Lieutenant Havoc, just talking to him. So...you know..."

Another thing she'd never have dreamed of saying, just a few weeks ago. "Well good," Havoc said. "I think I may throw my hat in the ring, then. Why don't you call me Jean, for starters, and we'll see what happens?" He pressed one hand slightly, drawing her even closer, and squeezed her fingers with the other.

Again the light colour on her cheeks. "Right. Jean. I'll try to get used to that."

They continued in a gentle arc around the floor, Scieszka's steps effortlessly matching his. Gradually they drew near the line of chairs and Havoc, glancing over his partner's head, saw Cash still where he'd left him, deep in discussion with Mustang. Or – Havoc frowned – deep in argument, judging from their expressions. For the first time this evening, the boss seemed irritated, brow lowered, lips set tight. Cash, meanwhile, fixed his stolid, direct stare on Mustang's face, jaw clenched.

Havoc steered Scieszka closer, and the voices gradually crept through the strains of the music.

"...and the time for alterations is long past," Mustang said. "I can't change anything now, when the finale is tomorrow."

"It doesn't have to be," Cash maintained. "That was an arbitrary choice of day, and it can be postponed – "

"For no purpose, major," Mustang retorted. "We can't alter the way this is done. You know that as well as I do."

"Surely if we just consider it a bit longer – "

"No. Look, Reg...just stop this. Please? The program is set, and you know it will go ahead. I appreciate you thinking with your heart, but I'm asking you to be responsible, and think with your head instead. Please."

"You're not going to listen, are you?" Cash demanded, fists clenched at his sides.

"No I'm not." The general's lips quirked up, black eye glittering as it reflected the light of a distant lamp. "Just go dance with someone, and forget it. I threw this party so we could let go and enjoy ourselves tonight. Are you going to waste all my planning?"

The voices faded as the movement of others pushed Havoc and Scieszka farther away on the floor. He danced almost without thinking, so intent was he on puzzling out the disturbing conversation. Presently, Scieszka mused, "I wonder what that was all about."

"You heard, huh? I have no idea. I don't get what Reg wants. I wish I – " A light shoulder tap interrupted him, and when he discovered Cash standing behind him, he faltered and stopped dancing altogether.

"Sorry, Jean," the man said gruffly. "Would you mind if I cut in?"

Havoc released Scieszka and they faced him side-by-side. "What was that back there, Reg? Is everything all right?"

The man grimaced and rubbed his neck uncomfortably, eyes sliding off of Havoc's face. "I guess so. We were just arguing about the way the explosives would work tomorrow, that's all. It was stupid. I wrecked my party mood, and hoped I could find some help in getting it back."

Scieszka cast an uncertain glance at Havoc. "I don't know...if you don't mind, Lieuten – Jean?"

"Sure, why not?" For an instant, Havoc hesitated, not sure how to deal with his friend's strange unease. Finally he managed a light laugh, shrugging it off. "All right, but remember – you both owe me for this."

For a moment longer Cash stood there, brows drawn together as he regarded Havoc. "I know I do, Jean. Trust me, I know."

"Come on, Reg, let's dance," Scieszka said, grabbing his hand and pulling him around to face her. He put his arms around her, pulling her close and holding her tightly, her startled eyes momentarily visible before he swept her off.

Havoc watched them dance away from him. Now that was odd, that whole episode. Not once in all their acquaintance had he ever known Reg Cash to alter plans at the last minute; the man never signed off on anything before he was certain it had been done right. Havoc couldn't imagine what could possibly induce him to want to change their arrangements now.

As he turned back toward the arm chairs, he thought fleetingly of asking the general what the discussion had been about, but Hawkeye had now joined the boss on the sidelines. So instead, Havoc fetched his glass from the table and joined them. Maybe he'd ask later, in private.

The three watched the goings on in silence. Mustang pointed with his glass to the far corner, where Fuery continued demonstrating dance steps to Winry. Half the time they weren't really dancing at all, they were laughing so hard. Winry's hair, which had been pulled back from her face earlier in the evening, had come loose from its clips and flowed down in a dishevelled fall of gold. At the moment, they were doing some silly thing that involved laying their arms along each other's shoulders, and kicking their feet up. Maybe it was Winry teaching Fuery, now.

"I'm glad they're enjoying themselves," Hawkeye said. "Everyone's been working so hard. It was a good idea to invite Gracia and the girls, sir."

"That's what I thought," he agreed. "Kain doesn't get much chance to meet women, so I decided to bring them to him. I thought he and Winry would get along. I know she's feeling lonely, without Ed and Alphonse. And have you noticed how much time Scieszka's been spending with Cash tonight, Jean? Maybe you should do something." He cast his lieutenant a mocking smile.

"Why, boss," Havoc chuckled, "I didn't realize you'd added matchmaker to your many talents." He sipped his drink, and grimaced. He and Breda had decided to finish off a bottle of dessert wine that had been barely half gone. It was a little too sweet for Havoc's taste, at this stage of the evening.

"I'm full of surprises, you know that already," Mustang answered him. "Though maybe you don't Cash cutting in on you, if you're interested in Ross. Except, uh oh. She's dancing with Falman again. Are you going to stand for that?"

Hawkeye laughed, eyes twinkling at Havoc as she remarked, "You're incorrigible, sir. But I think Jean's right: you are trying to play matchmaker tonight. I'm surprised."

"Why would that be?" Mustang glanced at her with one of his sidelong smiles. "Ed always used to call me the Great Manipulator, remember?"

"Yes, but this wasn't the sort of thing you usually manipulated."

"That is," Havoc remarked dryly into his glass, "except when he dated my girlfriends..."

Mustang burst out laughing. "See, Hawkeye? You forgot those. They weren't worthy of you, anyway, Jean. I was trying to keep you from being distracted but, well, we know what a success that was." He added, "These young women tonight, though," waving vaguely at the dance floor, "any of them would be worthy, and very good for you."

Havoc snorted. "You know, general, I keep feeling like we've crossed over into Ed's other world. You don't sound like any Roy Mustang I know."

"You're right!" Mustang suddenly exclaimed. "Let's forget all that. I see the dance is over – come on, Riza, let's get out there before the next song. And look, Jean, Maria's finished dancing with Falman." The man plunked his glass on the table, slopping a few drops onto the tablecloth, then grabbed Hawkeye's hand and dragged her onto the floor, calling loudly, "Lieutenant Ross! Lieutenant Havoc wants to dance with you!" before turning to begin the dance with his partner.

Havoc fought the urge to slap his hands over his reddening face, deciding it would simply be too insulting to Maria, who was already coming over. Everyone within ear shot was laughing at his embarrassment – again. At least Maria herself wasn't glaring. He blurted, "Look, I was planning to ask you anyway. He just – that guy – "

"Don't explain, Jean," she laughed. "I've known him for a while too, remember."

This party was the first time Havoc had ever had occasion to be this close to Maria, and he was enjoying every minute. She was as earnest and competent on the dance floor as in everything else she did; she knew all the recent dance steps, and had a natural, unconscious rhythm.

"What do you suppose you'll all do," she asked, "once this job is done and all the people are back in the city?"

Havoc lifted his hand and twirled her around, admiring how her emerald dress swirled about her. She had well-shaped legs all the way up, he noticed. He pulled her close again, fingers caressing the soft skin of her back as she laughed breathlessly. "Don't know," he said. "That'll depend on what Mustang gets into his head for his next project. He can pretty much invent his own job at this point."

Something nudged him between the shoulder blades and he glanced around to find Mustang himself dancing almost back to back with him. The general flung him a little sideways smile, commenting to his partner, "That looked like fun, don't you think, Riza?"

Havoc expertly side-stepped, Maria following his lead, and they now danced sideways to the other two. They moved just in time to see Mustang repeat Havoc's action of a moment before, twirling Hawkeye around. Her red dress rippled as she turned, hair swirling about her shoulders like a fine golden veil.

"I've always wanted to see your hair do that," Mustang smiled in admiration.

"The experience is repeatable whenever the need arises, general," Hawkeye laughed lightly, bright eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed.

"Why, Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang drawled, "are you flirting with me? Your commanding officer? Maybe I should report you. Or," he abruptly pulled her against him, smiling slyly into her face, his voice dropping into a lower, more husky range, "maybe I should...discipline you."

Her lips parted, her breath coming more quickly than it should. Havoc caught the swift flicker of alarm in her eyes. "It – I'm sure it's the wine – sir." Hawkeye fought to maintain a bantering tone. Unsuccessfully.

Mustang laughed softly. "No it isn't." And set her twirling again, sweeping her away across the floor.

"Well," Maria remarked, intruding into Havoc's frowning thoughts. "The general is certainly in a frisky mood tonight."

He caught his hands tightening, and quickly loosened them before they could bruise her. He dragged his eyes away, reminding himself that he had a lovely young woman in his own arms. "People say the darnedest things at a party," he shrugged, forcing a light smile. "Things they won't even remember tomorrow."

Later he took another break, propped against a corner of the table. The breaks came more often now and he suspected, checking his watch, that the party would soon wind down. It was well past midnight. Everyone could fuel themselves with wine and go quite a bit longer, he supposed, but it wouldn't be wise. They did have a job to do tomorrow. Most of it would be routine, if everything went okay. But they needed to be fresh enough to handle emergencies if something didn't go as planned.

Mustang danced with as much vigour as ever, and didn't take nearly as many breaks as Havoc, who wondered where in the world he got the energy. Look at him over there, swinging Gracia around as though they were both 25 or something. The man was a dynamo. One would think that Hawkeye would have started muttering in his ear by now, suggesting that things slow down and end soon. But even she seemed so caught up in the spirit tonight that she seemed not to have noticed time passing.

When, Havoc wondered, had _he_ become the boring, responsible one? It was unnatural.

Breda's most recent choice of albums was a set of slow waltzes, each song featuring different instruments. As a new song began, the strains of violins wafting around the dancers, Havoc pushed himself away from the table and approached Winry and Fuery.

"Kain, d'you mind if I cut in? How about it, Winry? I've been watching, and I think you're doing great. It's a slow dance, so I don't think it should be too hard. What do you think? Just one dance?"

Fuery nodded encouragement. "I think you're ready, if you want to try."

"Sure, lieutenant," the girl agreed. "Let's try."

"And please call me Jean," Havoc added, putting one hand on her waist and taking her other hand in his. He led her carefully and slowly, gradually working away from where Fuery remained, still monitoring his pupil's progress. "So how are you doing, Winry? Have you enjoyed the party?"

"Oh yes, a lot more than I expected. The dinner was delicious. And," she commented, laughing, "I don't think I made _too_ many mistakes, picking the wrong fork or anything."

"From what I saw, you looked like a natural. None of us grew up knowing that stuff. Well," Havoc corrected himself, "except maybe Armstrong. All those generations and everything." He was rewarded with another laugh.

Winry wasn't quite as relaxed as Scieszka was, or as creative on her feet as Laura had been, but as long as he stuck to fairly straightforward steps, she could follow easily. She was also taller than he remembered, probably because he'd always paired her with Ed in his mind. But she was taller than Ed, and tonight she wore heels as well. So he didn't have to stoop too much to talk to her.

He reflected that they made a rather striking couple, his navy suit and her navy dress accentuating their long legs and setting off the brightness of their hair. A matched set, almost.

She seemed comfortable chatting with him, any shyness she might have felt when the evening started having vanished by now. Yet as the dance progressed, her laughter became tinged with unease, her attention occasionally wandering until she seemed to have to wrench it back. Havoc wondered, briefly, if she'd decided she didn't like him after all, but then realized she had something on her mind that had nothing to do with him.

He asked softly, "What's wrong, Winry? Is there something I can help you with? Would you like to go back to Kain instead? I won't be offended."

Her eyes darted to his face, startled, before she flushed and shook her head. "Sorry, Lieutenant – I mean Jean. I like dancing with you, it's not that. It's just – "

"You can tell me. It's all right."

Winry hesitated, lips parted. The music gradually drew to a close, but although they stopped dancing, she made no move to leave him. Instead, she gazed anxiously at him. "Jean," she ventured. "I wonder…I want to ask General Mustang something. Would you…go with me? While I get my nerve up?"

Well. Here was a new twist. But it certainly explained her preoccupation. "Of course," Havoc nodded, swallowing his trepidation. He took the girl's suddenly clammy hand, hoping the boss was ready for this, and walked slowly with her toward the sideline where Mustang and Gracia had paused to chat, Gracia sitting in one of the chairs and the general perched on its arm.

Havoc kept an eye on Winry's face to make sure she'd be okay. She was a little pale, uncertainty warring with resolution in her gaze as they drew nearer. Mustang glanced over his shoulder, then surged to his feet to watch their approach, Gracia peering around him. The general waited in solemn silence, at stiff attention, as though being approached by his executioner.

"General Mustang," Winry began, then hesitated, swallowing nervously. Havoc set an encouraging hand on her shoulder.

"What can I help you with, Miss Rockbell?" Mustang asked with astonishing gentleness.

"I...you can call me Winry, you know," she blurted.

He paused. "I will," he answered slowly, "but only if you're comfortable enough with calling me Roy."

"Well...all right, I'll try. What I really wanted to ask, though...R-Roy...is..."

Havoc, glancing from one to the other, saw Mustang's eye widen and the colour begin to drain from his face. The man ventured, voice cracking, "Are you...asking me to..."

"To dance. Yes." The girl's eyes darted to his face and away again. "That is...if you want..."

"Yes. Yes, I...want. Very much. Winry." Mustang took a long, careful breath. He stepped past Havoc, face frozen as though he were stunned, and lifted a slow, shaking hand. Winry hesitated one last time, then placed her hand in his, and walked with him onto the dance floor.

"Jean…," Gracia breathed, hand at her throat, watching them walk away. "I had no idea she… Do you know what this will mean…"

He sank weakly onto the arm of the chair. "I know," he whispered. "I know." Armstrong drew near, inviting Gracia to dance, and Havoc could tell by the stiff way she held herself as she followed the man to the dance floor that she was trying hard not to crane her neck and stare at Mustang and Winry.

But Havoc could see the repercussions rippling across the dance floor as other dancers noticed the shocking pairing. Scieszka, again sweeping around the floor with Cash, did a double take, and misstepped badly enough that she would have fallen if he hadn't caught her. Ross, who didn't know the history, frowned in surprise when Breda, her current partner, gaped open-mouthed as he danced past the two of them. And Armstrong watched them over Gracia's shoulder, as intently as though he expected to have to initiate some sort of rescue.

Hawkeye, now doing a turn with Falman, caught sight of the pair and jerked to a halt, eyes wide. Falman bent to whisper something in her ear, and she shook her head with an apologetic smile, taking up the dance again with a grim resolution that might have been funny in any other situation. Neither she nor her partner could resist staring, and they hardly spoke another word to each other. Which, Havoc suspected, neither of them noticed.

Laura and Lance managed to dance on, unknowing, the young man bent over with his cheek pressed to the top of his girlfriend's hair, her arms wrapped tightly around him. But they were an oasis of oblivion in the middle of this strange crowd of people trying hard not to watch or notice what was right in their midst.

Fuery didn't even bother pretending. He walked around the edge of the floor and stopped at Havoc's side, biting his lip as he watched. For a moment he met the lieutenant's eyes with a worried frown, his own eyes large behind his glasses, then continued his tense vigil. Havoc subconsciously rubbed damp hands on his pant legs, shivering.

Mustang danced slowly, carefully, only lightly setting his hand on the girl's waist, allowing her hand to rest in his but hardly doing more than just curling his fingers around it. He kept his gaze fixed on Winry's face, even though she seemed unable to manage more than a brief glance at him once in a while. His own face remained drastically pale, lips seeming to stumble on the words whenever he made an occasional remark. It was as though he feared to say or do something wrong, and destroy the fragile spell that had engulfed the two of them.

But when he did speak, Winry responded, sometimes even with a slight smile. Her bright hair glowed as though it were aflame, against the black of his tuxedo.

For once, Havoc actually _wished_ he could get close and eavesdrop. He couldn't imagine what they might be saying to each other, after all this time, after all the tragedies that had bound their lives together.

But at last, the music faded and the dance was over. Winry looked into the general's face and smiled, relief mingling with pride on her face. He produced a faltering smile of his own, then lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it, eye closed as though savouring the moment of grace. Havoc recognized his two whispered words: "Thank you."

And then Fuery was at the young woman's side, drawing her away toward the sidelines. Havoc heard him say, "You did it. I knew you could, Winry."

Mustang remained where he was, staring blankly at the floor, as though all will had been drained from him. At last he looked up, taking a long ragged breath, to find Hawkeye standing near. Neither said a word as they gazed at each other, but her warm eyes were eloquent with joy and pity mixed together. More than anyone alive, she understood what that dance had meant to him. His lips trembled. Silently she lifted her arms and he stepped into her embrace as the soft, dreamy swell of saxophones began to fill the room around them.

Havoc sagged, flipping his legs over the arm, and sank into the depths of the chair as though the air had been let out of him. He watched Fuery dancing with Winry again, and other configurations forming on the floor, but finally leaned his head back against the soft leather, closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh. He wasn't sure if he actually dozed off, but he gradually became aware of Laura and Breda in the other two chairs, engaged in quiet discussion. He yawned, stretching out his tired legs, and noticed that Falman, too, was part of the conversation, standing with one knee on an arm of Breda's chair.

"You have to admit," Laura said, eyes narrowed in speculation, "he's danced with her a lot tonight. There are so many other things, too. She must be his girlfriend."

"It's just not like that, Laura," Breda protested, cradling a glass of something on one crossed leg. "She was his best friend's wife. He's dated a lot of women over the years, but I bet he's never once thought of Gracia Hughes that way."

So that's what they were talking about: Laura's preoccupation with Gracia as "girlfriend material" for Mustang. Where was Gracia, anyway? Havoc found her almost immediately, dancing with Lance. A spy, Havoc wondered in mild amusement, sent by his fiancée to gather covert information?

"That's exactly my point," the young woman went on. "Those others were flings. But a real relationship grows from real things. Like her making chicken soup when he needs it, or him making sure to drop by in time to kiss the little girl goodnight. Those are the solid things, day after day. And eventually, you wake up and understand that that's the real thing."

Breda shook his head. "Back me up on this, Havoc. You know he's not interested in Gracia that way, don't you?"

"He's right, Laura," Havoc agreed, folding his hands comfortably on his stomach. "You're barking up the wrong tree with this one." He chuckled inwardly, imagining what she'd think if she knew about the education fund.

"Shall we make a bet, lieutenant?" Laura's eyes glittered with challenge. "Give it a couple of months after this is all over, and I'll wager that Roy Mustang proposes to Gracia Hughes. I mean, he didn't even take a driver, but drove to her place himself to make sure she'd be here tonight. He doesn't do that very often. He's made a lot of effort to get her to share the evening with him."

Falman remarked, "He'd do that anyway, Laura. She was Maes Hughes's wife, and he's been friends with Mrs. Hughes for years."

"I still say you're missing what's right in front of you," she laughed. "Come on, Breda. Make the wager with me."

"Nope," he replied bluntly. "I don't want to take advantage of you; the money would be too easy. Of course he cares about Gracia Hughes, but he'd never think of marriage."

"He's right," Falman agreed. "It would never happen."

It was time, Havoc decided, to shut down this particular line of inquiry. If it went much further, it could only lead to embarrassment and discomfort, not just for Gracia, but even more for Roy and Riza. "Anyway," he began, sitting up straighter, "it's a bit personal, so we should let it go and think about getting ready to – "

But Laura blurted, "Wait. You're all so convinced. Where's your sense of romance? How can you possibly be so sure?"

And Breda, who'd had perhaps one more drink tonight than was strictly wise, waved his glass at the dance floor. "That's how," he said.

"Aw, Breda, now you've done it," Havoc groaned, slapping a hand over his face.

It was another slow dance. Fuery and Winry whispered together, laughing in a far corner. Scieszka danced contentedly, yet again, in the arms of Reg Cash. Havoc watched them for a few seconds, wondering glumly if he might already have spoken too late. Nearer the centre of the floor, Armstrong bent over Ross, positively dwarfing her, yet managing, with surprising grace, to accommodate to her smaller steps.

But off to the side where Breda had pointed his glass, near the edge of the floor closest to the dais, danced Mustang and Hawkeye. As the sensual, dreamy music took hold, they had gradually drawn close together, Hawkeye's head now resting on Mustang's shoulder as he pressed his unblemished cheek against her hair. The dark patch and the fall of his own hair across it completely obscured his face. But he had pulled her into a close embrace, one arm encircling her back and the other holding her hand against his chest.

They danced slowly, hardly more than swaying and taking an occasional step, eyes closed. They moved gradually around and around, the muted glow from the nearest wall lamp casting a nimbus about them, illuminating first one and then the other as they turned. For a moment, soft radiance sparked at the tips of Mustang's hair and along the edges of his black-clad form, and then Hawkeye's red dress brightened and her hair glowed like a spread veil of gold across her shoulders.

"Well," Laura remarked. "Now, that's cosy. But he's her commanding officer, and we all know about the fraternization rules. I still think you're wrong, Breda."

"You're not paying attention," he said gruffly.

The saxophones swelled and receded, gently, two or three voices weaving a counterpoint, with one lonely trumpet winding quietly in and out like a golden thread in a tapestry. The music drifted over the couple, wistful and slow, and they danced as if in a dream. Hawkeye's hand, pressed against Mustang's back, moved lightly, fingers caressing, and her lips had relaxed into the merest trace of a smile.

Havoc had never seen such an expression of happiness and contentment on her face, in all the years they had known each other.

At last the music faded away, one long, sad note trailing into nothing. The record had ended; there was no more music.

As the other dancers gradually detached and headed toward the sidelines, Mustang and Hawkeye stopped moving. Slowly she stirred and raised her head, face lifted to his, still enclosed in the circle of his arms. He did not release her, but gazed intently into her eyes. He stood utterly still, as though afraid to move, or even to breathe.

They stood like that for a very long time, gazing into each other's eyes. Now his hand moved on her back, as hers had done, fingers stirring to caress the material of her dress, entwining with the curls of hair flowing down her shoulders. Slowly, involuntarily, he drew a ragged breath, his face tightening in pain. Even from the sidelines one could see how he took everything in: the gleam of her hair, the warmth of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks and rich colour of her full lips. The longing on his face became unmistakable. The hand that had clasped her hand against his chest came up, his shaking fingers brushing across her forehead as he pushed aside a tendril of her hair.

Havoc found himself holding his breath, unsure what he was waiting for, a wave of grief flooding over him. He wanted desperately to look away. This was something none of them should witness. But he couldn't move. It seemed that nobody could. Even the other dancers had halted, looking back, sensing something but unable to understand quite what it was.

Mustang's fingers lingered on Hawkeye's face, lightly tracing the line of her cheek as though she would bruise if he touched her with more than fingertips. He took another uneven breath, lips parting as though he were about to speak. But finally Hawkeye spoke, softly, words that no one else could hear. She whispered to him earnestly, gently, her freed hand pressed against his chest.

He listened in silence, the powerful yearning still evident in his stricken eyes and drawn cheeks. But after a very long moment he responded, nodding at her words. He averted his face, his throat working, and did not hold her as she finally pulled free of his embrace, turning to walk toward the others.

At the sight of her pale face and bruised eyes, Havoc's paralysis vanished and he briskly went to work. "Well, everyone," he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster, leaping from his chair, "I think it's time to get home and get some sleep. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, after all. Come on, come on."

He began to shepherd the rest of them away from the dance floor, toward the doorway. Some, like Fuery and Lance, hung back as though they wanted to go to Mustang, but Havoc guided them away as quickly as he could. "Come on, people, we have to be awake and alert tomorrow. Kain, let's get moving. Lance, everything will be fine, don't worry. And Lieutenant Hawkeye is okay," he added, noticing how Winry and Scieszka were watching her.

Lance came to Laura, taking her hand, but she hesitated, staring at the solitary figure still standing alone near the dais, head bowed and hands hanging as though useless at his sides. Havoc put a hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the sight. "Just leave it," he said quietly. "We can't do anything. Please just go home."

Armstrong drew near and agreed, "He's right, Laura. Let us go now, you and I and Lance, and leave the general in peace."

"Sorry," she faltered, tears welling into her eyes. "I'm just – I'm very sorry." Lance pulled her close, tightening both arms around her, as Armstrong gradually led the two younger alchemists toward the door.

"Jean," Gracia murmured at Havoc's side, "should I talk to them, do you think?"

"That might hurt more than it helps right now, Gracia," he grimaced. "Tell you what. Reg!" he called softly to where his friend stood with Scieszka, frowning uncertainly.

The man immediately came over, relief mixed with consternation on his face. "What can I do, Jean?"

"Can you drive Gracia and the girls home?" Havoc asked. "I doubt Roy is in any shape to concentrate right now."

"Gladly."

It took a few moments, but Havoc managed to get everyone out the door by the time Hawkeye herself approached it. He knew she had hung back, to avoid the others, but as she finally drew near, he put his hands on her shoulders. "I'll drive you home," he said.

"No. I'm fine, Jean. Really. Thank you."

"Are you sure? It's no trouble."

"You're very sweet. But I think...," she lowered her eyes, "I think you should stay here for a while."

Her first concern, as usual. She never thought of herself. "Got it," he nodded. "But please take care of yourself, okay? Let someone else help him for a change, and don't worry. Have a long bubble bath or whatever you do to relax."

She squeezed his arm, and left the room. Havoc closed the door and pressed his back to it, hesitating as he contemplated the long stretch of the dance floor before him. Should he stay here and wait, or go over and get thoroughly singed? Oh, what the heck, he thought, smoothing his hands over the lines of his suit to calm himself. He was a soldier. He was used to staring death in the face. He started the slow walk across the room, onto the bare floor.

Mustang made it easier for him. He lifted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps, and half-turned in Havoc's direction, commenting with a wry little smile, "Don't worry, I'm not going to bite. And you'll notice I'm not wearing my gloves."

"Just being cautious, chief," Havoc replied as jauntily as he could manage.

His boss took a long, uneven breath. "You're very good with them, you know. That promotion was long overdue." The man swallowed. "Thanks for taking care of things."

Havoc dropped the pretence of cheer. "All I want," he said soberly, "is to know that you're really okay."

"Am I okay," Mustang repeated, as though wondering what the words meant. He stared at the floor, thoughtfully, as if he needed to contemplate their significance. "I guess I'm all right. I think I didn't realize the pressure this project is actually exerting on me. And Winry... So much more than I ever expected."

"I'm glad the two of you have finally made some kind of peace."

"So am I. She has a...a great soul. But she threw me right off balance. And then Riza...I should never have danced with her, but I just...needed..." He took another deep breath. "Well. She's got more sense than I do, that's certain. She's always been the strong one, between the two of us. She's just prevented me from making probably the worst mistake of my life."

Havoc couldn't bear it. "Roy," he responded around the tightness in his throat, "it's not a mistake to love someone."

Mustang stood utterly still, never lifting his gaze from the floor. He whispered wearily, "For us, it is."

Havoc jerked forward, raising a hand toward him, but he had already lifted his head, smiling crookedly in an attempt to reassert his former good mood. "Never mind, Jean. I'm fine now, and you know Riza. A good sleep will set us both back on track, and if I stray again, she'll shoot out my other eye. And tomorrow it will finally be finished. After tomorrow," Mustang said firmly, again turning his face away, "no more mistakes."

Havoc scrutinized him, not even trying to hide his scepticism. "So that's it? I'm just supposed to stop worrying, on command? Everything's all right now, and off we go like nothing ever happened?"

"Yes. Things are as good as they're going to be, till we get this thing done. I don't like the idea of the world being so vulnerable, and it's got me on edge. The sooner we get that array destroyed once and for all, the sooner I'll rest easy."

Havoc chewed his lip. "I don't think I ought to believe you..."

"Okay. File a report," Mustang suggested, lips twisting in amusement. "In the meantime, let's get out of here. I need to send the waiters and the other staff home, and we both have to get ready for tomorrow."

The general walked away from the dance floor, as calmly and easily as though the events of the last few minutes hadn't happened. Havoc followed him slowly, wishing fervently for a cigarette. Fuery, he thought, was both right and wrong: Mustang did seem to explain things more often these days. But the fact that he hadn't been ready to singe the flesh off Havoc's bones for speaking openly about him and Riza – that was downright scary. And Havoc wasn't sure he liked it. In fact, he decided, he'd almost prefer to have been yelled at. At least he'd have been on more familiar ground.

As soon as he got back home, he'd have a cigarette. And another good, stiff drink, too. Mustang wasn't the only one who would rest more easily when this job was finished.

-----------

_NOTE: I've taken the orders of the ranks (for the promotions) from the Wikipedia article on Amestris military ranks_


	7. Suspicions Solidify

**Chapter 7 – Suspicions Solidify**

_"Thine eyes the eyes of the doe..."_

She heard the words in her mind, through all the long night after the party, as she curled up in the arm chair, knees drawn under her and a warm wool blanket pulled around her shoulders, gazing out her bedroom window at the cool, clear night. The trees lining the street outside splintered the moon's light into shards of silver that solidified into bright, angular lozenges spattered on the front walk. The patterns danced hypnotically as the trees responded to a light breeze, holding her eyes while her mind pondered, the hours creeping slowly toward morning.

"_Thy garden enclosed with spices …"_ She remembered that whispered phrase, and other fragments of the Ishbalan love poem, from another long night almost three years ago – the night of Maes Hughes's funeral, when Roy in his despair had taken refuge in her arms, tears of grief falling on her face as he breathed the words of love.

It was the only night they had ever spent together, a night that began in anguish and potential suicide, but devolved into passion and heartbreaking gentleness. Yet in the cold, rational light of the morning that followed, they had locked away the passion, steeling themselves against temptation and agreeing that such a night could never be repeated. Their goals and aspirations, separately and together, could not encompass an emotional liaison of that kind. Even if...and Riza admitted this only to herself and only in private...even if both of them desired it with all their hearts.

Roy had confirmed that conviction again, yesterday afternoon before the party, when he'd said what he said to Gracia Hughes. It might have sounded cruel – Jean had obviously thought so – but Riza had understood it differently. Roy had implicitly reconfirmed the promise they had made to each other the morning after their night of love.

Jean had been upset at Roy's implication that he would never marry Riza. But she knew, rather, that he'd been promising he would never marry anyone else. Hard though the choices were for both of them, this at least was a kind of comfort.

Yet she had seen the words of the love poem forming again, on his face and in the yearning of his expression, as the music faded and left them standing in each other's arms on the dance floor. She'd had to stop him, before it was too late and he actually spoke. If she had let him recite those words again, neither could have endured it, and it would have been the end of both of them, the end of their dream of working as military partners to achieve something great in the world and counteract the harm done in the past.

It had been clear since Roy's return from exile that that was still his dream, despite how close they had grown two years ago when he was recovering from his injuries at the hands of Bradley and Archer. So Riza had sublimated her feelings yet again to the higher cause they both served, reconfirming her earlier resolve. He had lapsed occasionally in the past few weeks, which had disturbed her and necessitated that she guard herself more firmly. But despite the lapses, he obviously intended that they should continue as they had been for so many years before he had killed Bradley.

And so she had stood in his arms on the dance floor, gazing into his anguished face, and had pressed her hand against his chest, drawing him yet again from the abyss that threatened to open at his feet. "Do not do this," she had urged softly, eyes boring into his, as though she could inject her resolve directly into his soul. "We've promised, Roy. We can't allow ourselves to fall short now. No matter how hard the test is."

For a moment, her heart had constricted as she thought he would fail the test. The grief and devastation screaming from his face had been so overwhelming, so unexpected in its intensity, that fear had jolted through her and she had almost cried out, "What is it? Why has it become so much harder for you? _What are you not telling me?_"

But then he had sagged, the blaze of emotion in his eye suddenly extinguished as he nodded in weary acceptance and allowed his arms to drop and release her. The loss and resignation on his face before he bowed his head and turned away had lacerated her heart almost as much as the yearning of a moment before.

Riza sat sleepless by the window all night, watching the shards of silver stabbing into the darkness under the trees, fingers compulsively rubbing at the rough wool blanket, and wondered how many times they could come to the lip of the precipice, as they had at the party, and still pull away without being destroyed. Wondering if, the next time, she herself would have the strength of will to wrench them back.

Long before dawn, Hawkeye abandoned her vigil at the window, subduing her painful musings and taking herself firmly in hand. There was too much to do today, and her concentration must be focused on the work. She washed and dressed, ate a light breakfast of fruit and toast, made the bed, and generally tidied her small apartment. The only thing missing from her usual morning routine was an early walk with Black Hayate, but her canine companion had stayed the night at Gracia's house, and would be leaving the city early in the morning with Gracia and the girls. Washing Hayate's bowls and setting them on the draining rack beside the kitchen sink, Hawkeye smiled at the recollection of Elysia's enthusiastic response when she'd learned that the dog would be visiting for a few days. It was hard to tell who was more excited about this big adventure – Elysia or Hayate. They were very happy playmates.

When Mustang phoned, shortly before sunrise, it didn't surprise her; nor was it a surprise that he'd known she'd be ready to begin the day so early. His voice was cool, controlled, and impersonal as he requested that she pick him up and drive him to the cemetery before they proceeded to the main business of the day. As he'd done so many times before, he seemed to have suppressed his emotions and narrowed his focus to concentrate on more important concerns. Whether this was ultimately healthy for him, she had often doubted. But it was, she firmly reminded herself, absolutely necessary.

Hawkeye followed his cues, and responded crisply, "I'll be there shortly, sir." As she replaced the telephone receiver she reflected, with the wry lift of an eyebrow, that all that was missing from the exchange was the stiff salute.

After twisting her hair and clipping it up on the back of her head, she buckled on her gun belt and tugged on her uniform jacket, doing up the buttons as she plucked the car keys from a hook beside the door. Pausing with the door open, she surveyed the apartment one last time for anything she might have missed.

The throw cushions had been straightened and plumped up in their opposite corners on the couch, and Hayate's toys (those that hadn't gone to Gracia's place) had been collected and tossed into the large wicker box near the bookcase by the bedroom door. Hawkeye had opened the living room curtains so the morning sunlight would reach the plants on the stand beneath the window, and had remembered to water both those plants and the herb pots on the window sill above the kitchen sink. The breakfast dishes had joined Black Hayate's bowls in the rack beside the sink, and she had changed the water in the vase of the flowers she had picked yesterday for the table along the wall opposite the kitchen doorway. They'd probably last another day or two, she thought.

She glanced through the door on the other side of the living room from the kitchen entryway, and saw the shadowy outline of her immaculately made bed, its perfectly straight pillows almost gleaming in their white pillowcases. All her clothes, including last evening's red party dress, had either been hung in the closet or tossed into the laundry hamper. The only thing out of its usual place was the armchair she had dragged to the window when she'd realized she couldn't sleep; she could just see part of one of the arms, jutting into view past the doorframe. She hesitated, contemplating going back to remove it to its usual corner by the desk, but decided to leave it. The general was waiting, and she would deal with it tonight.

She always faced a complex project with a clearer mind when she knew that everything she left at home behind her was cleaned up and settled in place. Satisfied that there were no loose ends she'd forgotten, Hawkeye pulled the door shut, and locked it behind her.

She had pretty much expected that General Mustang would ask her to drive him to Maes Hughes's gravesite before they got on with the day's work. She suspected that he probably visited his friend's burial place before taking any major step in his life. He had stopped here before confronting Fuhrer Bradley, and she heard he had left flowers here just before joining in the battle with the invaders who'd come through the portal. Today would be another significant day in Mustang's life, so it was understandable that he'd need the peace of this place, and the reminder of Hughes's dedication and sacrifice, to help him ground himself. He would want to feel that his best friend was somehow still with him, sharing the most important moments of his life.

The lush grass sprang under their feet as they made their way across the rolling, sculptured lawn of the cemetery toward the grave. The dew was just beginning to dry, the somnolent, damp air of the night only now starting to give way to the freshly stirring fragrance of morning flowers, the faint chill beginning to disappear as the light grew stronger. The streets of the city had been uncannily empty and utterly silent as they drove, as though the slightest sound could set off a clanging echo. The hush of this place, however, was somehow softer, more restful, even reverential. The gradually awakening music of bird song that accompanied their soundless footsteps enhanced the quiet, seemed to make it deeper.

When they halted, the sun finally peeping over the chapel buildings at the far end of the cemetery, Mustang's long shadow spiked across the grave and over the grass beyond it as he lingered in contemplation of the headstone. Hawkeye stood waiting behind him, respectfully silent as he meditated.

When she had arrived at his house, the measured sound of his footsteps had preceded his emergence from the shadowed yard. Closing the gate behind him, he had paused under the street lamp as she held the car door open for him. Although he met her eyes for a wordless moment, he made no reference either to the party or what had happened at the end of it. There had been no need. There was never any need; they always knew, the two of them, without words. The dark smudges around his eye and the weary gauntness of his cheeks, laid bare in the glaring light of the street lamp, provided stark evidence that he had spent the night exactly as she had. Yet he smiled calmly, his face relaxed as though the morning had brought relief and somehow answered or ended the struggles of the night. He had placed a brief hand on her shoulder, then bent to get into the car, and had said nothing until they arrived at the cemetery. Hawkeye, occasionally observing him in the rear view mirror, caught something else in his face, something that hadn't been there last evening, but as he turned his head back and forth, watching the passing scenery, she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

Now, standing at the end of the grave, hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated Maes Hughes's name on the stone, he finally spoke – about something else entirely. "I suppose everyone thought, when I went after the Fuhrer, that I had thrown away everything Maes helped me work for." He paused. "You probably thought the same thing, didn't you, Hawkeye?"

"I'm afraid it did seem that way to me..." She had to admit it, reluctantly.

But he interrupted, half-turning toward her, speculative gaze peering at her from beneath the fall of his hair. "I remember how angry you were. I was surprised you didn't shoot me in the back before we got anywhere near his estate. But I wasn't doing what you thought I was. I wasn't trying to throw my dreams away. I changed the plan because I had no other choice. Though it's true, there was some element of personal revenge, too. I can't deny that."

"But wasn't that just what you were trying to avoid?" she reminded him. "Not indulging in personal revenge, but working for a higher good?" It had, after all, been the underlying theme of all their years together.

He lifted his head to stare across the grass, as though contemplating the array of gravestones before him, marshalled in long, precise lines like the army of dead soldiers it was. "There comes a point, Hawkeye, when you can't stand back and watch everyone around you – everyone you care about – being destroyed because you're supposedly going after some 'higher good'. If you're willing to watch the people you love go down in flames and do nothing about it, you end up not much better than the people you're trying to defeat. People who will sacrifice everything and everyone to achieve their goal."

"I suppose I can understand that way of looking at it," she returned contemplatively. "If you let a great many people die, whom you could have saved, just so you can reach the top..."

"Then by the time you get there," Mustang nodded, completing the thought, "you're living by the same abominable philosophy as the people you wanted to bring down. I just couldn't do it any more. I was already close to breaking point after I lost Maes. The fact that he had _willingly_ sacrificed himself, just so I could reach the top...," he shuddered, hands dropping to his sides, fists clenched. "That just made it worse. I felt as though I'd snapped my fingers and immolated him myself, on the pyre of my own ambition."

Such hopelessness and despair in his eyes, the night of Hughes's funeral. Hawkeye swallowed, the sudden rush of understanding burning at the back of her throat. No wonder she had found him, that night, with his gun in his mouth.

He continued softly, oblivious to her recollections, "That's when I began to open my eyes and realize the choice I faced: to become just like Bradley, or to step off the path I'd chosen, no matter how noble and hopeful it had seemed when I chose it. And then...Edward and Alphonse told us that Fuhrer Bradley was a homunculus..."

He stared sightlessly across the graveyard, lost in his memories. Hawkeye prompted, "And that changed your perception of the Fuhrer."

"It changed everything," he whispered. "I finally understood that I would never have become Fuhrer anyway. You might not have realized at the time, not being an alchemist – but homunculi can live practically forever, unless killed in a very specific way. Whatever I'd planned all those years, there would have been no natural succession to the Fuhrer's position. My goal had been impossible from the beginning, and I'd never even known it. What Maes had died for...it was pointless all along."

"Roy," she whispered in protest, but he didn't hear.

"Still," he murmured, continuing his relentless line of reasoning, "Bradley couldn't be allowed to continue the way he had been. Once I knew what he was, I was free to act against him. Compelled, even, if I still believed in any kind of 'higher good.' And finally free to exact some revenge for what those bastards had done to Maes."

"I think I understand now, sir. I always wondered why you seemed to change so suddenly, and did what you did."

"And you were sorely disappointed in me for doing it too, I imagine." He glanced at her and smiled, surprisingly without rancour.

Hawkeye hugged her arms across her chest, nodding glumly. "I'm afraid I was, general. I'm sorry. I tried not to be angry, but...I just couldn't do it. Not then, anyway. It seemed senseless at the time." She watched the dark length of his shadow gradually contract, closer and closer to the grave as the sun rose swiftly over the distant buildings behind him.

"But don't you agree that the results have been much better than if the original plan had succeeded?" he asked gently. "I'm very proud of my country. I'm proud that we've returned to parliamentary government, and that the military dictatorship is over. They are governing far better than I ever would have, even if I'd achieved my goal. Riza...I did the right thing."

He turned to face her fully, and as the sun slanted across his face, she could see the calm assurance in his gaze, the serenity even, as she'd heard it in his voice. And at last, her eyes beginning to sting, she recognized what she'd detected earlier in his face – something she'd never seen there before, the final fruit of the painful struggles he had endured throughout the long, dark night just past. It was _peace_.

"I believe you did, Roy," she whispered.

"And I still believe what I told you afterward, when I was recovering from my injuries. It's an extremely beautiful world, with all its flaws. It's worth whatever we have to do, to preserve it. I believe that more than ever. Maes understood this. And I don't want you to forget it either."

"Why...why are you talking about this now?" Hawkeye faltered, searching his calm face for reassurance, unsure why she needed it. It was as though the ground beneath her feet had suddenly become unsteady. She wished, irrationally, that she could sit down.

"What better place? Or time, for that matter? We're trying to save the world today, aren't we? And apart from that...I owed you, of all people, an explanation for what I've done. I should have given it to you right at the beginning, but...at least I've told you now." He took one last long look at the grave of his friend, murmured, "Good-bye, Maes," then turned away from it. "Come on, Hawkeye. Time to get this thing finished," he said, striding back toward the car.

She remained a moment longer, staring at the headstone without seeing it, wondering at the fact that Roy Mustang, who almost never explained his innermost thoughts to anybody, had given her such a detailed explanation on this morning, in this place.

When she turned to follow him to the car, her heart was pounding. She didn't know why.

---------

Havoc paused at the entrance to the old ruined religious sanctuary, observing the inspection teams waiting patiently in their separate groups along the street outside. Although in their dark uniforms they tended to merge into the shadows, he could discern some nearby individuals passing coffee around in thermoses while they waited for the sun to climb high enough to peer over the sanctuary. The buildings across the street were still little more than vague, angular shapes rising against a slowly lightening sky, while the edifice above him offered even fewer distinguishable details, looming darkly overhead like a sheer cliff.

The morning was cool, almost cold; hence the coffee. He could use some himself, he mused, shivering as a light breeze probed at the edges of his collar. But of course, he and everyone else would soon be a lot warmer, when the teams followed their leaders down into the cavern to conduct the final checks on all the explosives. Once that was done, they would gather out here again before scattering to their assigned sections of the city. There, after the explosions, they would go over the ground virtually inch-by-inch, to detect damage to buildings, possible breaches from the immense forces below, or even mere cracks that might be a result of those forces and should be closed and strengthened.

And although everyone hoped differently, it was also possible that the stone alchemists could become very busy in just an hour or two. Everyone would be plenty warm in that case, Havoc guessed.

He shivered again, but not from the cold. As he backed off the street and huddled within the open doorway of the sanctuary, just out of reach of the breeze, his hand felt along his belt for the extra device he carried today. He had to resist the urge to test the radios again. They'd been tested over and over already, he reminded himself, and Fuery had pronounced them in perfect working order. Any of the leaders would be able to reach the stone alchemists if they needed to.

And drivers were ready to race back and forth across the city with messages, if for some reason the radios did fail. He could see a couple of the cars from here, dark, rounded shapes parked just down the street, supporting the backsides of a several of the people with thermoses. There were other vehicles in other parts of the city as well, ready for an emergency.

They had thought of everything. He hoped. Though if streets started collapsing under the cars, the plans would change again. Drastically.

The sound of another car now approaching from the east provided a welcome diversion from the worried thoughts cycling over and over through his mind. Havoc stepped out of the doorway again, peering down the street into the murky distance. The sounds of the motor reverberated loudly off the uninhabited buildings for quite a while before the car actually appeared, the rumbling muffled only when the vehicle began to encounter the crowds of people nearby.

Hawkeye pulled up to the curb near the sanctuary entrance, and she and Mustang got out of the car. "You go ahead," the general told his companion. "I just want to mingle here for a few minutes."

"Yes sir," Hawkeye nodded, and walked smiling to where Havoc waited. "Good morning," she greeted him. "Ready for the last stage?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Havoc replied. He lowered his voice. "How about you? Did you sleep much last night?" She looked tired, he thought, the lids of her bright eyes drooping almost imperceptibly, her face lacking most of its usual high colour. Though that might just be the absence of sunlight.

Her lips twitched into a rueful smile. "Not at all, actually," she admitted. "Thanks for worrying, Jean. But everything's fine now."

"Seriously? And what about...?" He jerked his chin toward Mustang, eyebrows raised in a question.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the general, now chatting casually with several of the workers nearby, one foot on the fender of the car, a relaxed elbow leaning on his knee. "He's a bit...contemplative this morning," she murmured. "But otherwise, he seems perfectly fine. More than fine, in fact. Whatever the crisis was last night, he looks to have weathered it."

That news sent a shiver of relief down Havoc's back. He hadn't realized just how worried he'd been since last night's party had ended.

A few moments later, as the general approached the sanctuary entrance trailing the members of the first inspection crew that would go below, Havoc examined him closely. The general, too, looked a little tired. But Mustang met his eyes with a small, knowing smile, and briefly squeezed one of his shoulders. "You can stop hovering now, lieutenant," he remarked, and breezed past his subordinate and into the sanctuary.

Havoc rolled his eyes at Hawkeye, and then, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to see the sun finally inching over a building across the street, fell into step with her as she followed Mustang inside.

It was much warmer in here, the air close and a little bit dusty. The top row of stained glass windows on the eastern wall had begun to glow as the sun rose higher outside, streaks of light stretching with more and more strength across the large enclosure. The two banks of long, polished wooden benches below took on a reddish tinge, their top edges turning into straight lines of bright pink. While the altar area at the far end remained untouched as yet by the strengthening sunlight, someone had set bright lamps on the corners of the altar, and they illuminated a wide circle around it.

Most of the team leaders waited within that circle, although Breda appeared to have been pacing restlessly up and down the centre aisle between the rows of benches. He halted at the sight of the newcomers, exclaiming, "It's about time! Where have you been?"

"As far as I can see," the general replied mildly, "we're right on schedule. It's good to see you so eager, lieutenant. Good morning, everyone."

Armstrong and Cash stood near the stairwell entrance, with Laura pacing beside them, and Fuery, Falman, and Ross lounging on the closest bench. Lance, for the first time in full military uniform, sat a little down from them, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms lying along the top of the bench. Those four sprang to their feet as Mustang and his trailing entourage approached the front of the sanctuary. Havoc noted the furtively curious glances some of them cast at the general, and behind him at Hawkeye, as the two emerged into the light. Laura made no attempt to hide her open frown of worry. She herself remained dressed in her usual black civilian clothes, her dark hair once again gathered and clipped behind her head.

Mustang ignored the curious stares, and instead motioned his top people to gather around him as he placed himself at the stairwell entrance, Armstrong leaning against the altar beside him, arms folded across his chest. "Well," the general said, "all your hard work culminates today. You've done an excellent job. Congratulations."

He was characteristically relaxed, one hand stuffed into a pocket as he smiled around the semi-circle at everyone. He might be a bit paler than usual, the shadows of weariness clear on his face, but he seemed to be in a good mood, as Hawkeye had said. Havoc enjoyed another wave of relief, and actually began to look forward to the day's work.

The general went on, "I think I said most of what I needed to say last night, so I'll keep this short and let you get on with your final tasks. I just wanted to add that I know you'll see everything through today, whatever happens, because you are all professionals." He made a point of looking each member of his team in the face as he spoke, as though to ensure they knew they were all included in his high regard. "Even if your names aren't always remembered in future, the world will still owe you its gratitude from this day on. You've done a superior job, dealing with something no one's ever had to face before. As far as I'm concerned, you are the elite of the elite."

"You want to put that in writing?" Breda joked. "Maybe we can translate it into a pay raise."

Amidst the soft laughter that went around the circle, Mustang remarked, "If that was all it took, believe me, I'd have made you millionaires by now. I'm afraid you're stuck with just my commendations and my good opinion. Whatever currency that has these days," he drawled, "feel free to milk it for everything you can get out of it. But now," he briskly changed gears, "it's time to get moving. Lieutenants Ross and Breda, I've brought in the first crew, as you can see. Since your job will take a lot longer, you'd better get going now. The rest of you can go out and bring your own teams in after they've gone down."

Havoc motioned the other leaders to step aside as Ross and Breda came forward and collected their team, then led them through the entryway and down the narrow stairwell. This team was the largest, since they would inspect the upper levels of the underground city and had the most ground to cover. Mustang stopped Ross and gave her a hug of appreciation before she started down, and later, when Breda came along with his half of the team, whispered a joke in the man's ear that made him erupt. The laughter reverberated back up the stairwell long after Breda had passed.

In a long line, walking two or three abreast, the men and women passed by, some frowning and subdued, others almost vibrating with excitement that the big day had finally arrived. Most were in military uniform, but there were others – civilian engineers, chemists, business owners, construction workers – so many who had had no need to be here but who had volunteered for this project, knowing how crucial it was for the security of their country and the rest of the world. These, especially, Mustang made a point of singling out with his proud smile as they made their way past him on their way into the cavern.

Havoc stood on the general's left, and Hawkeye to his right, as this large group went by. As they watched the people passing, Havoc murmured in Mustang's ear, "I'm surprised the Council Chairman isn't here. Didn't he say he was going to stay in the city till the 'bitter end'? Did he chicken out at the last minute?"

"Far from it," the general answered quietly, his gaze never leaving the stream of soldiers and civilians. He smiled encouragement at a clump of rather young, non-military volunteers as they approached. "I called him this morning," he elaborated, "and he was planning to be here. But I decided I'd rather not have him underfoot, so I told him he'd be safest right where he was, and someone would call him as soon as the job was finished."

"Good for you," Havoc chuckled. "He really would be in the way. I'm glad he listened."

"Well, once I started describing what the explosions would be like…" Mustang smiled, still watching the workers passing by. "You'll call him for me when everything's done, won't you, Jean? I'll be too wrapped up in other things, and I don't want to leave him hanging."

"Of course."

Finally, the huge first team had all made their way down the stairwell, and it was time to retrieve the other groups. The leaders returned outside to bring in their team members, and as they marshalled everyone down the various aisles of the sanctuary, Mustang made a point of stopping each remaining team leader and shaking his or her hand before they went down below with their crew.

Falman and Fuery shared leadership of the second team – almost as large as the first one – as they'd shared duties in so many other things on this project. The general slapped Falman on the back, startling the man, and then put a hand on his shoulder, remarking, "Thanks for all the good work, Vato. Both for me, and for Hughes before me." He draped one arm around Fuery's shoulders while he mussed the younger man's hair with the other hand. "Good job, Kain," he murmured. "You've done an incredible lot of work here." Fuery smiled happily, cheeks flushed, then straightened his glasses and stepped into the stairway.

Havoc pulled his team along one side aisle, between the ends of the benches and the row of pillars in front of the windows. As they approached the stairwell, Hawkeye came down the centre aisle with her own team behind her. Mustang slid his arm through hers and smiled fondly. Havoc heard him murmur, "Do I even need to say how proud and grateful I am, Riza?"

She paused, and the two shared a quiet smile. "No. You don't. Thank you. And I'm very proud of you today too."

In silence, Mustang stood at the edge of the entryway, watching her start down the stairs, only disengaging when she finally rounded the stairwell curve and disappeared from sight. Only then did he lift his head and focus a pensive look directly at Laura, still hanging back with Lance before the two of them headed outside. "And now you know," the general said quietly, "why Gracia is not my girlfriend."

Havoc gasped at the unusually frank admission, while Lance's mouth fell open and Laura swallowed, her gaze sliding awkwardly off Mustang's face. The man laughed and cupped his hands on the young woman's shoulders. "Never mind," he said. "It was a fun game, and I appreciated your concern for me. But now it's time to move on." He drew the two young people closer, putting an arm around each of them. "It's been a real pleasure, you two. Well done."

"Thank you, General Mustang," Lance enthused, eyes shining. "We've really learned a lot."

"And will learn even more, if you join Armstrong's agency. Have you decided about that yet?"

"Of course we're going to join," Laura said. "With that library? How could we not?"

"Good. Glad to hear it. All right, then, you'd better head out into the city. I take it Fuery wants you stationed at the place he thinks is most vulnerable?"

"Yes," she nodded, "and once we make sure the ground is stable there, we've got a pattern to work to, to check other vulnerable places. Unless there's an emergency, and then we'll be called somewhere else."

"Good to hear that you and Kain have everything in hand." Mustang released them, but turned Lance to face him, and looked him up and down. The young man wore his uniform properly this time, with every button done up correctly, and nothing out of place. "I must say," the general smiled, "you wear it well, kid."

"I wanted to do it right," Lance said. "Just once."

The man placed both hands on his shoulders. "You've done everything right. Everything. Now, then. You'd better get going."

"Righto, general." Lance twiddled his fingers as he turned away. "See you later."

"And remember, you two," Mustang added, to their retreating backs. "Pace yourselves."

Laura, already well down the centre aisle, flashed him a sparkling, impudent smile. "Always with the 'pace yourselves'," she retorted, then grabbed Lance's hand and continued down the aisle, shaking her head.

Cash's crew was next to go down, the major simply offering a curt nod at the general as he walked past, and finally came Havoc and his team, who had been assigned the lowest, innermost ring of explosives to inspect. Mustang reached for his hand, to shake it, then muttered, "What the hell," and pulled him into a bear hug. "What can I say?" the man murmured. "You've done a truly brilliant job, Jean. Thank you, for everything."

Havoc walked ahead of his team, down the stairs. The images and statuettes nestled into the alcoves in the rock walls, grotesque and foreign to the modern consciousness, seemed to watch, frowning and forbidding, as he passed by. The lines of electric lights that had been run along the walls to make the stairs safe also cast intermittent shadows onto the features of the images, so that they sometimes seemed to peer out from within rings of fire, or turn half away into a threatening darkness. He tried to avoid looking at them, with his usual shudder, hunching his shoulders up around his ears. Whatever arcane myths or rituals these things were designed to signify, he just couldn't identify with them. It might have been irrational, but he was rather glad that they were going to be sealed away again, probably even destroyed, before the day was through. Heritage and history was one thing, but these carvings just gave him the creeps.

Partway down the stairwell, just before the curve, he stood aside and waved his people past, counting heads as they went by. He couldn't help himself, even though he didn't really need to do this; he knew his sub-leaders would already have taken the roll. But it was comforting to exert some sort of control, to combat the jitters that had swept back in under the scrutiny of those ancient images.

He glanced up the stairs, to the stairway opening, and discovered Armstrong and Mustang facing each other across it, as still and silent as if they were just two more ancient images. Neither of them spoke; they just stood there, looking at each other. Havoc could hardly see their expressions from here, but he hesitated, wondering if something was wrong. An involuntary memory flashed into his mind: the two alchemists at the dinner last night, raising their glasses to each other from opposite ends of the table, in honour of friendship.

Finally there was movement. Almost simultaneously, the two men saluted, stiff and formal, holding the salute for longer, perhaps, than was usually done. As Mustang finally turned to begin descending the steps, Armstrong watched him go, again standing utterly still and silent. Havoc fell in with the last of his own people and continued his own descent, frowning thoughtfully.

It was as warm down here as he remembered. He and his team walked down one of the streets leading directly to the bottom until they reached the lowest ring of explosives, just two streets above the centre square. There he split his group, sending people to left and right, then taking several others down across the square and back up to the street on the other side, to spread out from that point. For the very last time – thank goodness! – he walked under the oppressive weight of the massive cavern roof and endured the vigilance of the buildings tilting over him, empty windows staring at him like gaping, unblinking eyes.

He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sensation, concentrating on his work. It helped that he could hear a slight murmur of voices around him, people calling to one another as they caught sight of each other in cross-streets, or yelling out a question to their nearest neighbour. Even that precarious sensation of life helped push back the threatening deadness of this place.

Once again he was struck by how intact this buried city was. The street surface, albeit slightly curved now, remained as smooth as it had been when the city was alive, no cracks or breaks anywhere along its length.

The caches of explosives were set several feet apart, all the way around the city. (When Mustang had said, a few weeks ago, that this was the largest amount of explosive material ever gathered into one place, he hadn't been kidding.) Between the carefully piled and wrapped rolls of explosives ran the fuse lines that linked them together, that would synchronize their triggering, and over which Havoc now bent as he walked slowly along the street, checking the connections at every cache. It didn't take long to do the individual inspections, but still it was slow going. Even after half an hour, the street ahead of him seemed to stretch on forever without an end in sight.

With the hole in the cavern roof now sealed, any slight air circulation had once again ceased, and the atmosphere was close and dense. He had to remind himself, now and then, to breathe deeply. Otherwise he'd find himself beginning to gasp. He wondered if anyone else had the same problem.

Occasionally, as he left one pile of explosives and headed for the next, crossing a vertical street leading down to the centre, he could see the general doing his own walk around the transmutation circle, hands in pockets, leaning over and apparently inspecting it. Maybe he was trying to remember its design, to record it for future reference? Havoc couldn't imagine him doing that, when it had been created in such an abominable way to begin with, and used for the recent invasion as well. But the man was paying very close attention to something within the circle, anyway, for whatever reason.

Again he reminded himself to breathe. The atmosphere literally felt like a weight on his lungs, as it had the first time he'd wandered these streets. Briefly he remembered the house he'd peeked into, where he'd seen the disintegrated furniture, and the remnants of toys. Soon even the building would be pulverized to dust, and all traces of its inhabitants would vanish forever. He wasn't sure whether to be glad or sad.

He continued his inspections, always conscious of the buildings leaning over him, exerting pressure to push him away, force him down toward the centre. He mentally pushed back, concentrating on the acrid smell that now permeated the cavern, from the almost incalculable amount of explosive material that had been brought here. It became a matter of rote: walk half a block, following the fuse lines to the next pile of explosives; scrutinize all the connections; make sure the pile of wrapped rolls was in the right formation and secured properly; walk another half block to the next pile.

He began to feel as though he'd spent days instead of hours in the abandoned city today, trudging down this street, bending and straightening over the explosive caches. But eventually his team members began to arrive, trotting in ones and twos along the street, reporting that their sections of the ring were finished and secure. Havoc finally caught sight of the end of his own stretch, just a block away, and his heart lifted as he straightened up, clapping his hands on his hips and bending backwards to get the cricks out. As he'd already arranged with Ross and Breda, he now sent several of his people to the highest ring, to join with their team. He knew that Cash, scouting the ring a few streets above him, would soon split his people as well, between the topmost team and that of Fuery and Falman, inspecting the second ring from the top.

Briefly, Havoc debated going to join them himself, but glancing down again toward the centre square, he saw that Cash had descended to it and had begun pacing the transmutation circle with Mustang. Now...that was a little odd, wasn't it? He'd thought Reg would go up above with his own team. Perhaps he'd found something amiss, and had gone down to report it?

If that was so, Havoc decided, then he himself would stay nearby, just in case he needed to help change the plans, or communicate changes to the other teams. He continued along his own street, finishing his stretch of the ring and then going over fuse lines and piles of explosives that had already been inspected by others. The sounds of his footsteps accompanied him, bouncing back muffled and indistinct, from the walls of the buildings to either side. He remembered the sound of the general's car in the street up above, just a couple of hours ago, and the crisp, sharp echoes.

He peered down again at the duo in the centre whenever he came to a cross street. Nothing seemed to change, however, and even though Cash gesticulated once in a while, as though making a firm point, Mustang's response didn't suggest anything particularly urgent. He stopped occasionally, arms casually crossed, head slightly inclined as he listened, and on the whole he appeared very relaxed. Maybe this was simply Reg's standard procedure: reporting the final status of the munitions that were his responsibility.

Finally Havoc abandoned his double-checking (he'd been doing it far too much today anyway), and strolled down the gradual incline toward the open square, to join the two men there. Cash continued speaking intently and earnestly, frowning in concentration, but as Havoc drew nearer, both men glanced over and Mustang said, "Never mind, major, I believe that's all, don't you?"

"You're sure?" Cash asked. "Sure about everything?"

"Yes. It's all been finalized and the pieces are in place, so we're done here. I appreciate all your work, through this whole project. Now it's time to gather the people together and get them up to the surface, so this can be finished."

A long pause, and an inexplicable sense of tension, as Cash searched the general's face. Mustang met his gaze with a calm smile, and at last the major nodded, slowly. "Yes, as you say. It's time to get this thing finished." He straightened and saluted, as formally and rigidly as Armstrong had done earlier that morning. "General Mustang...it's been an honour to have served with you. A true honour."

"For me also, major. Thank you for everything." The general returned the salute.

Cash dropped his hand and strode quickly away, walking past Havoc toward a street leading to the upper levels. He did not so much as glance at his friend as he went by.

Havoc took his place at Mustang's side, and they both began to scan the upper reaches of the city, taking note of the movement in the cross-streets where the last three teams were now finishing up their inspections. It was much easier to breathe here. "You two had a long discussion," Havoc remarked. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, it's fine," the general replied, never diverting his gaze. "As you can imagine, working with munitions tends to make a person cautious. He just wanted to make sure there are no loose ends."

"I don't think there are. I hope there aren't."

"You do what you can, as thoroughly as possible, lieutenant, and then you have to let it rest and trust that you did the best you could. Cash knows that, too. Eventually you just have to stop second guessing yourself."

"Tell me about it," Havoc chuckled wryly, thinking of his own tendency today to double and triple-check things beyond reason.

"Everything finished, with your own team?" the general inquired. "I guess I don't really need to ask, or you wouldn't be here."

"It's all in place and ready to go," Havoc answered anyway.

"Good," Mustang murmured after a while. "I think I see people starting to move back around, toward the exit. Cash was planning to go along the highest levels, to make sure nobody gets missed up there."

"He's very thorough."

"The best there is," the general nodded agreement. "When I talked to the Council Chairman this morning, I asked him to relay my instructions to put the highest possible commendation on Cash's record."

"He's going to appreciate that."

The leather of his boots creaked slightly as the general began to turn, slowly, around and around, brow furrowed under his fringe of hair as he took fresh stock of everything above him: the roughly bowl-shaped curve of the city with its tilted buildings leering down toward the bottom of the bowl; the piles of rock that had fallen when the rupture was created by the flying ships as they escaped; the jagged outcrops and almost liquid whorls of rock in the cavern roof high overhead, melding seamlessly into the huge smooth space where Lance and Laura had created their new layer of stone. Havoc, turning with him and following his gaze, saw it rest successively on each level of the city at which the rings of explosives had been set.

He may not have been down here all the time, Havoc reflected, but the guy had clearly studied the surveyors' maps in great detail, and knew where everything was, almost to the very inch.

As the moments ticked past, they watched the city on the opposite side from the exit gradually empty of its few inhabitants. Slowly, slowly, the illusion of life bled away, as all movement drained out of the streets and returned them to their state of empty repose. Again the general turned, eye following the streams of workers as they passed the cross-streets and became momentarily visible, then disappeared from view again.

"They'll all be accounted for, correct?" he murmured. "The team leaders will check their names off the lists?"

"Right," Havoc answered. "They'll be at the bottom of the path, checking everyone before they even start up. They won't miss anyone."

"Good," Mustang nodded, satisfied. "I wouldn't want even a single person trapped down here when it all blows up. That would be...horrific. I have enough on my conscience without that."

Havoc glanced above, toward the stairwell entrance high up near the cavern roof. He couldn't actually see it; the last stretch of the exit path was obscured as it curved around an outcrop that jutted out like the prow of a ship. It began to climb pretty steeply there, too. But what he could see, the lower, more horizontal part of the path, was already heavily populated with people on their way out. It wouldn't be long now, till everyone was clear.

"Ten other exits they found, right?" Mustang mused, already turning to begin another visual sweep around the cavern bowl. "Falman and Fuery? And Laura and Lance sealed all of them? That's certain?"

"All done," Havoc nodded. "What did you say again, sir, about second guessing? You've had the very best people working on this, and they've all done a great job. If there are any openings left, they're the size of pin holes, and won't likely be a problem. It's as safe as anyone can make it. Don't worry."

"Thank you, lieutenant. I know you're right."

There was no more movement through the streets at the far side of the city. The final evacuation was well underway. At last Havoc turned to his boss. "Well, chief," he said. "With everyone else heading to the exits, I think it's our turn. Time to go."

"You go on ahead," Mustang said. "I'm not quite finished here."

"Really? What do you mean?" Havoc returned, frowning, to his survey of the vicinity. All the streets leading vertically out of the square were empty, as far up the opposite side of the city as he could see. All the final inspections were finished. "What is there left to do?" he wondered. "Whatever it is, I can help if you like."

"No, that's fine, lieutenant, I'll be quite all right on my own."

"But I don't get what you still need to do. We've done everything now...haven't we?"

"Pretty much." The general shrugged, gaze still moving slowly across the panorama on the far side. "I just want to check on a small thing or two, that's all. Go on up." 

Havoc should, of course, have done as he was told. It was just odd, that there was apparently something left to do, when they'd checked and double checked and triple checked everything. And Mustang was mainly here in a supervisory capacity to begin with; the details of these final checkups had really been Cash's province. Unless...

"Boss," Havoc said with a wry chuckle, "you're still second guessing, aren't you, even after what you said before? I know the feeling; I was doing the same thing before we even came down here. I kept wanting to go over and over things, recheck the radios, everything I could think of, even though I knew I didn't need to. You really don't have to worry. Nobody knows his stuff better than Cash. I can guarantee the setup of the explosives and the fuse lines are about as perfect as it's possible to be."

"I'm sure you're right, lieutenant." A corner of Mustang's mouth quirked up. "But I still want to check a couple of things. So humour me." He turned a brief stare on his companion. "Go."

Something really was odd about this.

Havoc made no move to leave, instead watching the other man return to his survey of the cavern roof and the empty buildings, turning and turning, slowly, eye narrowed in calculation. Again his leather boots squeaked as he turned.

If even Reg Cash had begun to herd everyone back to surface level, it meant everything was completely ready. So there was nothing left to do, and no need to stay here any longer. Surely?

It struck Havoc, abruptly, that Mustang's boots had been shined within an inch of their lives today. His uniform looked as though it had been freshly cleaned and pressed, and even the buttons boasted an exceptional gleam. Not a thread was out of place. And – Havoc realized with a start – the general had donned all his medals today. Even the ones awarded for the Ishbal massacres which, as far as Havoc knew, he had never worn in all the years since.

None of this should have made Havoc's heart begin to thud so profoundly in his chest. It was this heavy, looming dead place; it had to be. It had always made him irrationally nervous.

"That's all right, general," he heard his voice say, sounding nothing like himself, his breath coming so short that he suddenly wanted to gasp. One hand felt around almost of its own accord inside a pocket while the other, palm inexplicably damp, rubbed absently on a pant leg. He added, forcing himself to speak casually, "I'll just stick around till you're ready."

Mustang again left off his contemplation of the surroundings, and turned a level gaze to his subordinate. "I'd really rather you go now, lieutenant," he repeated.

"It's no problem," Havoc responded breezily. Discovering a cigarette in his hand, flipping it over and over. "It'll take a few minutes for everybody to get up the stairs anyway, so there's time. Gotta keep track of everyone, including the big shot who everything depends on. Especially the big shot. Since Hawkeye's not here to check your name off on some list, I guess I'll take over the job..."

His voice trailed away. Mustang's face had softened, his gaze compassionate, as though he understood why his lieutenant was babbling, but could do nothing to help. Havoc faced him for a very long moment, the breath choking off in his throat. He felt the cigarette crumble in his freezing fingers, dropping in scattered bits to the ground.

And that was when, looking down, he finally registered the sixth ring of explosives. The one that hadn't been here yesterday, but which had been set – within this last hour, perhaps, by Reg Cash, who was not only thorough but also discreet? – inside the transmutation circle itself. The ring of explosives at the centre of which Roy Mustang had very carefully placed himself.

Stupid – so _stupid_ that he hadn't noticed, so fixed had his attention been on watching the movement in the higher streets. The unease that had ebbed and flowed inside Jean Havoc over the past few weeks solidified into a mass of cold, sickening fear in the pit of his stomach. He demanded very softly, "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

His companion put on that secret smile of his, the one with gaze downcast and face half-turned away. The one that had always seemed so humorous, even innocuous. The one which, because of its apparent harmlessness, had deceived them into thinking that Roy Mustang had finally stopped keeping dangerous secrets from them. But Havoc realized in a flash of blinding insight how terribly, utterly wrong they had been.

"I don't know what you could possibly mean, lieutenant." And there was that amused, silky voice the man had used on them so often in the past, diverting their attention at the most crucial moments, until it was far too late to do anything.

Damn the man to hell.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Roy. Not here. Not now."

The smile faded. Mustang held his hands open apologetically, and answered, "I'm sorry. You don't deserve that. But there's really nothing more you can do here."

"There is. I can take you with me when I go." Havoc clung desperately to the fiction.

"No you can't."

Havoc licked his lips, hesitating. He felt as though the fear was strangling him. "Then...," he cursed the hoarseness of his voice, "...I'll go up with you. When you go."

Again Mustang made no answer. He just stood there, unmoving and silent, bending that gentle look upon his friend, allowing his silence to speak for itself.

Havoc rasped, his mouth unbearably dry, "Maybe I should go get Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong. To persuade you."

"He won't come."

"You mean..." It couldn't be. "You mean _he knows_ you're doing this??"

"Yes."

"And he – he _agreed_ to it??"

"There is no other way to destroy the array completely, Jean," Mustang answered gently. "One of us has to be here, at the centre."

"You are crazy. Both of you are _fucking crazy_!"

"I know it looks that way. You must try to understand – "

"Understand _nothing_!" Havoc cried. "Come on, don't be a complete idiot. Let's get back up to ground level, and if we need to re-jig some things, we'll do it. This is just like you, to be so melodramatic about everything. But there's no need to do something this stupid. Just come back up with me – "

"I can't. Sorry." Mustang shrugged.

Havoc wasn't sure which was the stronger emotion right now: stark fear, or anger. But that little shrug, and the adamant refusal, thrust the anger to the fore. He burst out, "I know what's going on! This is all about your god-damned lifelong death wish, isn't it? It must be a dream come true for you, Roy. This is the excuse you've been looking for, ever since Ishbal! Isn't it, damn you?"

Mustang's eye closed, fists clenched at his sides. "Jean – you couldn't be more wrong. I came back from exile full of reasons to live, more reasons than I'd had in many years, more than you can imagine. But we came down here, and touched this circle, and realized exactly what would be needed to destroy it..." He opened his eye and smiled with another little shrug. "What else could we do? This circle must be destroyed, whatever it takes."

"That's what you were arguing about," Havoc realized suddenly. "Right at the beginning, when Armstrong tried to convince you he should be here at the centre instead."

"Yes."

"There has to be another way. You decided too soon, you didn't take enough time to figure out another way. Dammit, Roy – you're just giving up!"

"Do you think we didn't look for some other way? Do you think Armstrong would have agreed to this if there were anything else we could do? Do you think _Reg Cash_ would have agreed?"

Havoc gasped, reeling. "Then he actually did...Reg knew about this? He..." But of course he'd found out about it, somewhere along the line. Havoc had hoped desperately, irrationally, that he was wrong about this. But Mustang was standing in the center of Cash's last circle of explosives.

"Yes. I'm sorry. He understood from the first day you brought him in."

"That fucking bastard. I'll kill him for not telling me."

"That was my doing, not his. You are not to blame him."

"And that..." The revelation had hit so hard, Havoc felt as though he were about to fall to his knees. "...that's what he was asking you to change, last night at the party. And – and he was trying to change your mind again, before he left a while ago. Wasn't he?" He swallowed, hard, and faltered, "Doesn't that – doesn't it tell you something? You don't have to do this. You don't."

"Listen to me." Mustang opened his arms, spreading them to indicate the wide array all around him. "The blood and the souls of thousands of people have sunk deep into this place, for four hundred years. Alex and I sensed it immediately; the array reeks of death, to its very core. Its contamination runs very deep. It can't be destroyed with just a few little explosions on the surface. And even Reg Cash understands that." He dropped his hands. "Alchemists have so much to answer for in this world, Jean. So much."

"Roy," Havoc insisted, around the pain in his heart. "This one was not your fault."

"Not this one, no. And yet..." Mustang lifted his gaze to the city again, and surveyed it for a moment. "Do you realize," he said, "that Alex and I are the only two alchemists still alive, of those who destroyed Ishbal? The people of Ishbal are rebuilding their country, and some of that wrong is being righted. But this – this place is an abomination in its own right, and on top of that, it endangers the entire world. And it, too, was created by alchemists." He met Havoc's eyes again. "What have he and I been spared for, Jean, if not this?"

The problem, Havoc thought in despair, was that there was no answer. No argument against this. He thought his collar would choke him, his heart still pounding violently inside him, as though raging against the inevitability of it all. But he could see – dammit, he had a brain, and he could see, and Roy knew he could – that there truly was no other way to accomplish what needed to be done.

"How...how can I do this?" It was a plea from the bottom of his soul. "_How can I just walk away and leave you here?_"

Mustang smiled. "You can do it because it's the right thing to do. Because you're a strong man, stronger than you realize. And because I trust you."

Strong! The last thing Havoc felt right now was strong. He buried his head in his hands, fingers clawing through his thick hair until it felt like they would gouge grooves into his scalp. He could hear his own gasps of pain, rasping unnaturally loud in the silent square. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream, or beg his friend to find some other way, any other way, to get this job done. To save him from having to do what was asked of him, and have to live with it the rest of his life.

"I'm so sorry," Mustang said softly. "I didn't want any of you to have to face this predicament. Armstrong was going to make sure everyone else had gotten out, and then close the exit before anyone realized I hadn't come with you. Maybe I did the wrong thing. Maybe I should have told all of you right from the start – "

"No." Havoc suddenly lifted his head, pulling his hands free and forcing them back down to his sides. "Because then you'd have spent all your time defending yourself, instead of getting everything ready. We might not have let you do it at all. And then this circle would sit here, ready to threaten the world again, like a sword hanging over our heads forever."

"You're right. I knew you would understand."

"Yes, I – I can understand, I suppose. You did the right thing, not telling us. I know you did. It's just...Roy...we...we...oh god, I can't stand this!"

"I know, Jean. I know. I'm so sorry."

The two men faced each other in silence. Roy stood composed and untroubled against the backdrop of lifeless buildings and streets, already wrapped in his own solitude, calmly awaiting the fate that swept toward him. It felt, Havoc thought, as though they gazed at each other through a thick window of unbreakable glass.

In a vertiginous rush, a host of memories invaded his mind all at once

…_working with Mustang in their Eastern posting, striving to keep a precarious peace in that unruly territory…_

…_starting to date some new girl only to discover that his boss, yet again, had stolen her away…_

… _watching him in action during a fight, the streaking flames leaping like live, wild things from his hands…_

…_and more than anything – laughing. Laughing about miniskirts. About Ed. Breda and dogs. Hughes and his photos of Elysia..._

…_Roy Mustang returning with dead eyes and a face of stone from the funeral of his murdered best friend..._

…_sorely wounded, almost to the death, raving in delirium in the hospital as he recovered from battle with the Fuhrer and the bullet that had almost finished him…_

…_and sitting huddled in depression beside a fire in a northern shack, speaking of innocent people who had died because of his mistakes, touching the patch on his face and saying, "That's what this eye sees."_

…_Roy Mustang at the dinner table the previous night, announcing, "As my next surprise...," beaming a smile of pleasure as he bestowed his last gifts on his friends. The education fund...the promotions...the new agency for training alchemists...freeing Laura and Lance from the military...even the matchmaking, even that..._

Winding up all his affairs.

Now he stood in the centre of the centuries-old transmutation circle, in the silent, forsaken city, watching Havoc as though from a great distance. There was no sadness or regret on his face – only tranquil acceptance, and a serene, almost otherworldly peace. He had taken final leave of all his friends, indeed had truly taken leave of the world itself, sometime between last night's party and this morning. He had gone so far already, on this final journey. There would be no bringing him back.

"I meant everything I said last night, Jean." Roy broke quietly into Havoc's thoughts. "It's been good. Everything we've done together, all these years. I couldn't be more proud."

"I hope you know...I – I – " Havoc laboured to keep his voice under control. He swallowed, and realized it was useless. If he said anything more – all the things that needed to be said – he knew he'd break down. It just wasn't fair.

Roy rescued him, as always. "It's okay. I do know." He ran his gaze quickly over their surroundings again, and added briskly, "Now I have to get this done. Before anyone else figures out what's going on." His voice faltered, just for an instant. "Especially Riza... Get her out of here. Keep her safe. Please."

Havoc took hold of himself, for the other man's sake. "You're right. I'd better get up there, to make sure."

"Tell her I'm sorry. And Jean...thank you. For everything."

"Roy..." Havoc took a deep breath, and managed a nod of understanding, of comradeship. He knew he should go, but still he hesitated. He couldn't, just _couldn't_ leave this man behind forever, without telling him – saying _something_ – letting him know – the thing that was most important. "Roy – my friend – we love you, all of us," he choked out, finally. "Remember that – remember!"

Again his knees threatened to give out on him, but he had a job to do. Had two men's jobs to do, now. At last he wrenched himself around, pain dragging behind him like a lead weight, and forced himself to turn away from his friend and leave him where he stood. He walked quickly from the city square and then dashed, gasping, up one of the vertical streets heading toward the path that led up to the exit.

The leaning buildings seemed to push at him, push against him, as though to force him back down the way he had come. The darkness of the side streets appeared ready to flood into his path and block his escape. He fought against the sensation, feeling like he leaned into a heavy wind. Part of him wanted to give in and turn back, to grab Roy and drag him, _compel_ him up to the surface, to safety, to the people who loved him and couldn't let him go. But another part, a frightened, animal part of him that was suffocated and oppressed under the weight of this place, drove him forward against the pressure until at last he met the path, and the stream of people still travelling along it.

The sight of them re-established a modicum of sanity. If any of them turned back and saw who remained below, in the centre of the array, there might be questions. It was his job to push them along quickly and keep their eyes turned forward. Roy was counting on him to take care of things.

He stopped at the side of the path and began to call, surprised at the steadiness of his voice, "Move along, quickly! Come on, no dawdling, we have to get everyone out as soon as we can. That's it, hurry now. Everybody move, that's right, hurry it up." Even the vague movement of air as so many people rushed past him brought a relief so great he thought he might collapse. Clenching his jaw, he forced his knees to hold, and stayed on his feet.

The people continued moving as he waved them along, carried on a wave of murmuring voices and even the occasional laugh. Their job done down below, everyone's spirits were beginning to rise as they anticipated the final stage of their work aboveground. Gradually Havoc made his way up the path behind them, only a few stragglers still running up from farther back. The high, jutting prow of rock loomed over them at the bend in the trail, and he paused there, waiting for the final few.

He leaned a hand on the cool, rough stone, panting, and finally allowed himself one last look below, before he rounded the curve that would conceal the transmutation circle once and for all. His heart clenched at the sight of Roy standing small and alone in the centre. The tiers of buildings, row upon row upon row of them, rose high and threatening all around him, and he looked so lost, so utterly abandoned, the only spark of life that remained in the city. Yet he held his head up, straight and smart in the long, clean lines of his uniform, his medals gleaming even at this distance in the soft white radiance that glimmered from the cavern rock arching overhead.

"_How can I do this...how can I leave him_?" Havoc stood in shadow, high above the cavern floor, undoubtedly invisible to the man below. Yet he half-lifted his hand anyway, an involuntary, yearning impulse aching inside him. He could not make himself take the last, irrevocable step around the curve.

Then Roy lifted his head. And looked directly at him, across the wide distance, raising a gloved hand in farewell.

Havoc gasped in pain and hurled himself around the bend in the path, running as quickly as his legs could take him, to escape the sight.


	8. Apotheosis

**Chapter 8 – Apotheosis**

Havoc raced up the last stretch of the path, almost to where it rose the last few steep feet to the exit. He halted, turning to face the last stragglers, waving his hand back and forth, urging them forward. "Hurry!" he called. "We don't have much time before the whole place goes up!"

This wasn't strictly true of course, since Roy would surely wait till he heard Armstrong sealing the upper exit, before setting off the explosions. But the sooner Havoc could get everyone out of here, the better, and if he had to scare them to make them hurry, then so be it.

He continued waving them past him and up toward the stairwell. He could hear them calling to each other as they started up the stairs, their footsteps echoing back down as they leapt toward the city above. Most of the other leaders had already left the cavern with their teams, but his heart fell as he looked back toward the jutting barrier and discovered Hawkeye running up the path, behind the last of the workers. Trust her to make sure everyone was accounted for, before leaving herself.

And that meant _everyone_. He knew the first question she would ask as she drew near. "Where's General Mustang?" she demanded immediately, as expected. Her eyes followed the figures of the remaining workers up the slope until they disappeared into the shadowed stairwell.

This was going to be tricky, and would demand the best acting job of his life. Heart in his throat, Havoc made a face and adopted his most cheeky and exasperated air. "You know the chief," he rolled his eyes. "Mister Perfection had to check the explosive lines partway up, for the hundredth time. He's on his way by now, though. He'll be along in a couple of minutes."

"All right. You go ahead, then," she nodded tersely, "and I'll follow with him when he's done." Again, just as expected.

"No, he said we should just get up the stairs, and he'd be right behind us." Havoc waved his arm toward the stairwell, motioning her to precede him. Hopefully she'd take the bait, but he doubted it.

Nope, not quite yet. "Are you sure?" Her doubtful gaze turned back the way she had just come. The rock outcrop cast its dark shadow across the path, but the opening at the bottom, the centre square of the city, was partly visible beyond it, illuminated by the white radiance of the cavern roof.

Couldn't let her see what was in that square. "We've got to make sure everyone else got out safely," Havoc told her. "Mustang can take care of himself, but some of these people might be tempted to stay back and try to catch the fireworks." He congratulated himself on his perfectly plausible story.

Finally. It must have been convincing, because Hawkeye nodded briskly, and turned to begin making her way up the last few feet of the path. Havoc masked a small sigh of relief, and started after her.

He watched her climb steadily ahead of him, slightly bent, hands opened at her sides to keep her balance against the slope. Here the footing was less certain, the relatively smooth surface of the path now giving way to natural rock with its bumps and unexpected juttings. He stopped watching her, needing to focus on keeping his own feet steady, but as he climbed he wondered glumly what he was going to say to her, after the exit was sealed. The sound of her boots, leather squeaking, made him think with a shudder of Roy in the midst of the transmutation circle.

He remembered, fleetingly, how she had raced to catch Roy in that hot air balloon, as he rose from the ground to intercept the Elric brothers in their battle with the flying ships. When Roy had called down that there was only room for one person (and when you considered the size of the basket he stood in, he was right), Hawkeye had screamed after him that he was a liar. Armstrong had had to hold her back.

Havoc grimaced in resignation. She was going to hate him, he knew she was. Well, join in, he thought gloomily. I'm already the first member of that club.

Just another few feet; they were almost at the stairwell, and the ground had levelled itself again. He ventured a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, wishing a little wistfully that he could see the array from here, just one more glimpse before the chance was gone forever. And then thinking, with an uncontrollable shudder, that he really wouldn't be able to bear it if he could see down there –

He banged into something, and staggered back a few steps, almost to where the ground dropped steeply behind him. Hawkeye had halted again and now stood on the path ahead of him, unmoving, half-turned to stare back the way they had come, a deep frown darkening her face. Although she stood in shadow, the soft radiance in the stone above them drew a glow from her hair.

The echoes of the last footsteps still came faintly from the stairway entrance.

"Ow!" Havoc complained, rubbing his nose. "Give a guy some warning, Hawkeye. What's up? We need to get out of here, and get everybody clear of the exit. C'mon."

"Who on earth," she mused, scowling gaze unfocused, "would even think of staying behind to catch the fireworks? They all know what would happen to them if..."

Havoc swallowed, then forced out a short, breezy laugh, still rubbing his nose. "I'm sure there's nobody, really, I just think it's time to get out of here and make sure everyone's come with us. I know all the names have been checked off already at the bottom, but I've been double-checking things all day. Can't seem to help myself, you know? Who knows who might have taken a detour between the bottom and here?" Dammit, he was babbling, and definitely shouldn't have said _that_. That was exactly what he _didn't_ want her to think about.

But she continued staring at nothing, all her attention turned inward. He wondered if she'd even heard him. He searched frantically for something else to say that would get her attention and stop her speculations.

Because she was speculating in dangerous directions, quite apart from what he himself had said. Havoc, watching her eyes, made even brighter than usual in contrast with the dimness around them, could almost see her thought processes at work, addressing the thing that puzzled her, sensing the incongruities here. She wasn't even thinking about those non-existent people who might have wanted to stay behind. There was only one person foremost in her mind. Always.

"Hawkeye, why are you wasting time? We have to go!" His mind raced, coming up with nothing better despite all his efforts. He watched her working things through, making connections, comparing all the odd questions from the last few weeks to what she knew of Roy Mustang's mind and, above all, his values and motives. The things he had said, and hadn't said. Things he had allowed himself to do...and things he had not allowed, no matter how fervently and obviously he wanted them. And all the while, as the crucial moments passed by, what was visible of the path behind them remained obstinately empty, along all its length.

Which was, of course, the final piece of the puzzle.

At last Hawkeye's attention returned to her present circumstances, her large amber eyes finally focused, narrowing on Havoc. Then she stepped aside, raising an eyebrow in challenge, leaving the last few feet of the upper path open and the stairwell entrance gaping behind her. "By all means, then," she said. "Go."

He stared at her. Then, his heart sinking, he dropped his hand from his face, and dropped all other pretence. "No," he answered quietly.

"Nice try, Jean." So it had been pointless to try to deceive her. The boss should have known better. Her eyes lifted again, searching the path, then looking beyond it to what she could see of the gap in the centre of the city.

"Riza," Havoc interrupted her scrutiny, bringing her focus yet again back to his face. "Don't even think about it. He won't come. I've already tried. And we have to get above ground and get the exit sealed before it's too late."

For a long moment she gave no answer, as she returned to her scrutiny of the path. Then, "I'm right, aren't I? About what he's planning to do?"

"Yes, unfortunately you are. But – "

"You talked to him about it? He told you what he was doing?" She returned her gaze to his face, sharp and probing, her voice cutting like a dagger.

Havoc faltered, "Not – not before this, if that's what you mean. Believe me. I only guessed when he wouldn't come up with me just now. That's the only reason I found out, and then he had no choice but to explain why he wouldn't come."

"And after he 'explained' – you left him down there."

Oh god. It sounded even more horrible than it was, if that was possible, when she stated it so bluntly. "Riza, please. I didn't want to – I tried to talk to him – you have to believe me – I did everything I could to convince him – " All his excuses sounded so lame, suddenly. He felt sick to his stomach with self-loathing.

"Never mind, Jean. Sorry. I understand." Her gaze softened. "Roy can be very persuasive when he needs to be. I know he gave you no choice but to leave him."

"If I could have thought of a way – any way – " He held his hands open, helplessly, and then dropped them as he remembered, with a chill down his back, how Roy had made the same gesture.

"Yes. But there isn't any other option. I see that now. I should have seen it all along." Hawkeye closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath as she absorbed the news. She stood straight, stiff, almost at attention. "How blind I've been," she murmured.

"I was just as blind," Havoc spat bitterly. "I've known for weeks that something else was going on, that he wasn't telling us. I should have figured it out long before this."

"We've never thought clearly where Roy was concerned, have we?" Hawkeye actually smiled a little, eyes still closed.

"Which was exactly what he wanted, half the time. The bastard."

"Yes. The Great Manipulator." Again the rueful smile. "Well, then. This changes…everything." She opened her eyes again, once more turning her gaze to the path behind him.

"Riza, please," Havoc implored her, sure he could guess what she must be thinking. "He won't come back. You know he won't. When he's made up his mind like this, when he's spent weeks and weeks planning it, you know you'll never talk him out of it. He won't come back with you."

For the third time, her lips turned up in a small, private smile. That smile was beginning to make him nervous. "I'm not going to try to bring him back," she replied.

He was tempted to give in and allow himself a sigh of relief, but he knew her too well. There was no way Riza Hawkeye would give up on Roy Mustang this easily. His eyes bored into her, trying to figure out her strategy. She just stood there and said nothing. Smiling.

Just like Roy had done.

When the understanding hit him, it almost literally knocked him off his feet. He gasped sharply, "You can't actually mean – " But she did. He could see the impossible, unthinkable resolution growing on her face. He urged her, "Riza, you can't. My god, don't even think of it. Don't do this to him, or to yourself."

"It's all right, Jean. Don't be upset – "

"_Upset_!" he cried. "This goes so far beyond 'upset' – I tell you, you can't do this. Roy doesn't want it!"

"I know, my dear. But I do."

Terror clamped itself around his heart at the endearment, so unlike her. "Dammit, Riza, you're completely nuts! You're as crazy as he is! Listen to me, it was the last thing he said before I left him – telling me to get you out of here and keep you safe. Don't you see _he doesn't want this_?" Havoc could feel the panic rising in his throat. "Am I going to have to fight you, to make you get up that stairway?"

"You're not going to fight me, Jean, and you're not going to stop me either," she answered, her voice eerily calm. "He'll forgive you. It's really my decision, after all, not his."

Havoc couldn't believe he was living this nightmare all over again. If he didn't do something quickly, he was going to fail, in the last thing Roy had asked of him in this life. Nobody ever changed Riza Hawkeye's mind about something this important. She kept looking down the path, her breathing quick and sharp, a flush of colour growing in her cheeks as though in anticipation. _Anticipation_, for god's sake! Riza was slipping away as he watched, leaving everyone behind – leaving _him_ behind – without even looking back. Just like – just like –

She took two steps, as though to start past him, as though he weren't even there. But he launched himself at her, all his horror and panic driving him, imprisoning her in his arms as he pushed her backwards. Her startled glance flew to his face and her arms jerked against him, trying to windmill so she could right herself. But he held her off-balance, trying to drag her toward the stairwell – dammit, he'd drag her all the way up by the hair if he had to! – but she abruptly went limp, an unexpected dead weight slipping out of his arms.

As he dropped her, she already had her hands out to catch herself on the ground, and swiftly rolled out of reach as he lunged forward again. She sprang to her feet and tried to scurry down the path, but this time he caught her from behind, throwing his arms around her waist. He knew some of the tricks she was likely to employ, so when she didn't keep trying to push forward, but dug in her heels and shoved violently backward instead, he was braced and ready for it.

He used her own force to tip her further off balance, and tried again to drag her toward the stairs. But Riza, too, was better prepared this time, and pushed even harder, knocking Havoc onto his back, with her on top. He had no choice but to release her as he fell, or he might have cracked his back. As it was, he yelped as a sharp stone stabbed at a shoulder, and another bruised his hip. Riza scrambled off him and got to her feet, but with a painful grunt he curled upward and caught her, arms around her knees, bringing her down again.

Finally realizing she wouldn't simply be able to outrun him, she turned on him, getting to her knees and resorting to her fists. He caught the rising fury in her eyes as she swung at him, connecting with his jaw. Through the rain of stars in front of his eyes, he lunged at her again, one arm up to shield himself, the other grabbing blindly at her. A lock of her hair had come loose from its clip, and dangled along her shoulder as she struck him again and again. Now his own anger flared as he realized she was trying to knock him unconscious.

Was she seriously hoping to knock him out, to leave him lying here when the explosions started? Was she really that far gone?

For a moment there was no sound but their gasping, and the thud of the woman's fists. Most of her blows landed on his arms, as he raised them to protect himself, but she got his head often enough that he was getting dizzy. He lurched to his feet, but staggered awkwardly and sank back to one knee, at the very verge of the sloping drop in the path. Sensing a chance to get away, Riza sprang up and whirled toward it. But once again, he'd prepared himself for the move, and leapt forward, grabbing her around the waist and literally throwing her back, like tossing a discus. Yet again, he stood between her and the way down, feet wide apart, braced to stay upright despite the dizziness.

"You're not getting past me, Riza!" he gasped. "You might as well give up!" He took some deep breaths and gave his head a little shake to clear it.

"I will _never_ give up, Jean!" she cried. "You know better than that!"

"Then you asked for this!" he growled, and finally swung his own fist.

He caught her on the side of her head, literally taking her off her feet, sending her rolling over and over. But this time, springing back up, she whipped her gun from its holster in the same motion. Crouching in front of him, panting heavily, she pointed the weapon in her hands straight at his heart, eyes hot with fury.

Havoc stared at her, stared down the barrel of her gun. This nightmare just kept getting worse and worse. "Put – put it down, you idiot," he faltered.

"No!" she gasped, the desperation in her voice bordering on hysteria. Sometime in the last few seconds, she'd scraped her left cheek, and a couple of drops of blood trailed just in front of her ear. More hair had escaped the clip.

He swallowed the fear in his throat. "So. You'll kill me to get to him, is that it, Riza?" he demanded. "After everything we've been through – is this what we've come to now?"

"Just let me past, Jean," she said tightly, "and everything will be fine."

Havoc shook his head, licking a cut lip and tasting blood. "No can do. Sorry." And as her eyes widened in disbelief, he suddenly spat, "I guess you'll just have to shoot me, then, won't you?" She gaped at him, unmoving, gun still raised, and his anger flared again. "Come on, Riza. Go ahead and shoot me! Kill me for him! And make sure you tell Roy about it when you get down there, so he can tell you what he thinks of it!"

She met his eyes, and her face crumpled in anguish, the gun beginning to shake in her hands. Slowly she began to lower it, rasping, "Jean...you just don't understand..."

He leapt forward and knocked the weapon out of her hand. It bounced a few times on the rough surface of the path, hardly visible in the shadows, before it clattered into a crack in the stone, dropping out of reach of either of them.

"_No_!" Riza cried, as though he'd robbed her of her best friend. Again she tried desperately to lunge past him.

But this time he met her head on, arms wide, grabbing her and literally picking her up and throwing her down onto her back. She gasped in pain as he dropped onto her, sitting himself just below her hips so she couldn't kick up her feet and hit his head. She bucked and twisted underneath him, but he leaned onto her until he got hold of her wrists, trapping each of them on the ground with one of his hands. Finally, with his slight height advantage, he'd managed to immobilize her.

"I am not," he growled, gasping into her face," going to let you go down there!"

"You have to – Jean, please – "

"I am _not_," he repeated, almost ritually, "going to let you go down there! I will not lose you! Not you too! I won't!"

"This isn't your choice to make!" she almost screamed the words into his face, again twisting wildly underneath him, to no avail. "Can't you understand that, you stupid man?"

"I don't care. I'm not going to let you do this to me too. Once in a day is often enough, don't you think? Hell, once in a _lifetime_ is too often."

Her gaze momentarily softened. "I'm sorry you have to be here, and go through this," she said. "But Jean – think of Roy, not yourself. Do this for him."

"I'm already doing this for him, damn you!" Havoc retorted. "This is what he asked me to do."

"Of course he would. You know what he's like. But think," she urged. "Really think of him for a minute. How can you leave him all alone like this? Jean – Roy doesn't deserve to be so alone," Riza cried, wide eyes filling with tears, "when he does the last and greatest deed of his life!"

How small and forsaken Roy had been, standing by himself in the middle of the transmutation circle, in the middle of that deadly ring of explosives. Havoc bowed his head, closing his eyes painfully. "Dammit, Riza," he croaked.

"You must let me go to him. I'm begging you, Jean. He won't hate you for it, I promise."

"But...but you'll hate me if I don't let you go. Won't you?"

She took a long time to answer, and he opened his eyes again, to gaze into her face. "No," she replied at last. "I won't hate you. But I...I wouldn't be able to bear it. I can't lose him like this. Please, Jean. Please. This is our only chance in this world. I'm begging you – don't deny us this gift."

_Gift_!

The word shattered him. Havoc released her wrists and slid off her, to sit on the ground and bury his face in his hands, shuddering uncontrollably.

It was wrong – so _wrong_ – that the world had brought the three of them to this. How, how could he endure losing her too?

Riza sat up beside him, and put her arms around him, pressing her unblemished cheek against his. "My dear, dear friend," she whispered. "This is how it's meant to be, for Roy and me. You have to trust that I know this. This is the right thing to do."

"Please, Riza," he moaned. "Please..."

She got to her feet and held out her hand to help him up. They stood facing each other one last time. Her eyes were bright in the dim light, her hair now falling about her shoulders like the veil of shimmering gold from last night's party. Havoc leaned forward with a groan and took her into his arms, holding her against him, warm and alive and vital.

"I love you, Riza," he murmured.

"I know, Jean. Thank you. I love you too." She pulled away, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Go take care of the others. Be strong, my dear. They'll need you very badly. Major Havoc," she added with another smile.

Even now, he might still have caught her by surprise, and managed to wrestle or carry her up the stairs. But he couldn't take this choice away from her, no matter what Roy wanted, or what he had promised. Even if his own heart was breaking.

Havoc took a deep breath. "You'd better run like hell, if you want to get to him," he told her. "If you're anywhere near this top level when the first explosions go off, he'll never even know you were here."

"I know," she nodded breathlessly. Already her shining eyes turned away, toward the bend in the path. "I'll get to him. Never fear. Thank you, Jean – thank you! Good-bye!"

She pushed past him in a rush, beginning her last, eager run toward her life's culmination. He stood immobilized for a moment, watching in the forlorn hope that she might yet have a miraculous change of mind and come back. But she allowed gravity and the steep slope to speed her steps, and was already far down the path, almost to the final bend, running with utter abandon. The dead city absorbed the sound of her footsteps, quickly swallowing them up. And Havoc watched in disbelief as Riza Hawkeye, dedicated soldier, flung away the rest of her weapons one by one as she ran.

So far had she, too, travelled on her final personal journey, shedding like an old, worn out skin the life she had lived.

Havoc recoiled from the sight, leaping into the exit and up the stairs, two or three at a time, racing as though something were pursuing him. He wondered, a bit wildly, if he was in such a rush to flee the oppression of the cavern and the imminent explosions – or if he was driving forward to keep himself from running back to join the two loved ones he left behind him.

The carved images in the stairwell watched his progress, seemed to mock his haste as he flew up the steps. But at last he rounded the final curve, saw the opening above him, and took the last three steps in one leap. Finally he had escaped, and was on the surface, out in the open. Safe.

Fuery, Breda, Ross, and Falman had shepherded all the other workers out of the church, and had returned to stand waiting a few feet away from the altar entrance. Cash stood near Armstrong, who loomed at the entrance to the stairwell.

Havoc halted at the big man's side, panting. Their eyes met. He turned from the alchemist, closing his own eyes painfully. "Do what you have to," he said tightly. And, his shoulders slumping, he began, at last, to weep.

Armstrong squared himself in front of the entryway and, summoning his alchemic power, heaved forward and dealt the sides of the doorway a mighty blow, collapsing the stairwell with a roar into a pile of tumbling rubble.

------------

_Snap!_

Flames flew from his hands with a crackling hiss, streaking through the air with their usual unerring accuracy. Even one-eyed, even whirling in a swift circle, he had retained that skill. The flames were part of him, extensions of his mind and his will, and they sped forth at his bidding to wherever he sent them. The streams of fire shot to the fuel sites ringing the outer edge of the central square, and the fuel caught instantly with a series of audible whooshes. The newly ignited flames followed the tracks of the fuse lines carefully laid down over the last few weeks. They spread upward and outward, flowering and branching, then branching again, and again, wider and wider, toward the large explosive sites placed at the outskirts of the city.

He monitored the growing lattice of flame with his single critical eye, turning and turning, watching every branch, checking the timing of every line. Each separate line was burning as it should, and thus far the timing was virtually perfect. Already the distant cavern roof glittered, reflecting back the sparkling, dancing red light. But that was nothing, compared to what was to come.

It had taken longer than he expected before he heard the distant booming that meant the last exit from this place was being sealed. He had waited and, in dismay, even begun to contemplate going back to the surface, in case something had gone amiss. If he had to do that, then the entire project might still fail, and such a failure could not be contemplated.

But at last the first loud boom had come rolling down the stairwell, followed by several more, each successive rumbling coming more faintly than the one before, until finally they stopped altogether. Roy had smiled then, silently thanking Armstrong for his faithfulness, and most especially thanking Havoc for fulfilling his own difficult, heart-wrenching task.

Now he watched the fiery capillary lines reach the edge of the city, and right on cue, the first distant ring of explosives went off. It had finally begun.

All the sites blew up, almost simultaneously, shattering buildings, throwing entire walls of stone and debris inward and downward, hurling massive blocks upward to bash into the cavern roof. Chunks of rock broke from the roof and crashed onto the upper regions of the city, dropping and rolling in slow motion before smashing buildings to bits as they landed.

Anxiously he watched the falling debris and the roof itself. This was the only moment when flying debris could endanger the stability of that high dome – at least until the final explosion, when all the forces came together. None of the other rings was high enough to launch anything that far up. Swivelling around, craning his neck, he waited and watched. But anything that fell from the roof seemed to have been jutting out already, now merely knocked loose, and he could see no new cracks or holes. Fuery and Falman would be happy.

The large section of roof made of re-created stone held absolutely firm. Lattice like diamond. Lance…

Swallowing in relief, he returned to his monitoring of the city itself, ready to make up for any off-timing that might develop as the next rings eventually blew. He tried to banish all other thought from his mind now, and concentrate on the job at hand. Nothing personal could be allowed to distract him. All of that was over.

It would soon be time. The buildings at the highest levels of the city were still collapsing inward, clouds of dust and newly pulverized stone billowing up like storm clouds as they fell. Already the ground had begun to rumble under his feet. But not remotely enough even to crack the array. Not yet. And now new fiery capillary lines had sprung up from the first explosions, outracing the collapsing buildings, running back toward the centre of the city but more importantly, back toward the second ring of explosives that would add their power to the force of the first. The capillaries lit up the entire city, glowing and pulsing through the clouds of dust.

The pressure was building already. He felt it amassing around him, a hot wind rising and turning like a wild animal gathering itself to leap, or roaring in a growing spiral like a hurricane, with himself at the calm point in the centre.

Himself at the centre, controlling the elements and trying to save the entire world. Well, whoever wanted to accuse him of absolute arrogance would have all the ammunition they wanted now, he thought with a stab of amusement. Edward Elric most of all, if he could only know. And Maes Hughes would roll his eyes in fond mockery.

It made him want to laugh out loud in exhilaration, and Roy recognized a mad hysteria lurking at the back of his mind. He felt as though all the restraints that had chained him inside, all these years, were beginning to fray and unravel. Something in his soul, in his mind, was coming loose as the winds of his power swirled around him. He wondered, almost idly, if he would even be sane when the final moment came.

He lifted his hand and flexed his fingers, judging the time. Four rings left, each fuse line burning quickly, all in virtually perfect time with each other. Reg Cash was truly a master at his craft. Not long now. Roy was ready for it – all of it. It was almost over, and he had made his peace and banished all the regrets of his life except one. But for that one, it was now too late, it had always been too late, and she would learn to understand, and some day might forgive him.

It would soon be time.

The second ring exploded, throwing down another swath of the city, in tumult and violence. And on the heels of it –

"Roy!"

A voice – _that_ voice – conjured up by his thoughts where no one should be! No – _no_ – _**NO!**_

He whirled to see her standing alone behind him, halfway into the circle, her uniform whipping and billowing around her in the fierce wind. She stood already weaponless, and now removed her uniform jacket and hurled it aside. The gale carried it up and away, in swirling circles toward the roof.

Horror broke over him in a black, crashing wave, and he staggered under the force of it, the chains tightening once more around him.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye!" He took refuge in anger, lowering his hand. "I ordered you out of here!"

"I'm not going," she said loudly, over the storm, and began to walk calmly toward him. Her hair had pulled loose from its usual bonds and now, wrenched by the wind, it flew about her face and shoulders the way it had done as they had danced in each other's arms last night.

His breath caught at the sight, but he could not allow himself the distraction, or the memory. "This is no time for argument! What are you thinking?? Get out of here – now!"

Hawkeye stopped, just a few feet away. Here, near the very centre, the wind was calmer. But the pressure was building, and the crashing buildings hurled their force nearer and nearer, the ground quaking beneath their feet. The third ring would blow in just a few moments.

It was almost time. There was nothing he could do.

Riza gazed unflinchingly into the blaze of his anger, and knew it for what it really was. She declared solemnly, "I will not let you face death alone again."

She knew, then. She understood it all. The anger dissolved, giving way to the grief that underlay it. "Riza, I – I wanted to protect you from this," he protested, opening his hands, powerless. "I have to do this – there's no other way – but you don't – didn't – have to be here. Not this time."

"I know," she nodded. "But this is _my_ choice. My place is at your side. Don't you know that yet?" And then she smiled, at last allowing all her secret heart and soul to shine from her eyes, in this one place where, after all these years and all they had been through, it was finally allowed. "I will not live without you, Roy," she said.

He thought his heart would break. He could have fallen to his knees, screaming in anguish. Despite all his efforts to protect her from this final conflagration, she was here. It was too late, too late! It had already been too late to save her, when she'd turned back and begun to descend the long path to the open square.

Yet there was no blame on her face – only quiet joy. Her eyes were alight, shining with understanding and acceptance and comradeship. She stood there not as a subordinate any longer, but as his equal. His partner. His...lover.

She understood everything, completely, and yet she was here. Smiling at him.

His heart leapt of its own accord, with a wild, answering joy, bursting the chains forever. So be it, then. They would be together at the end, as they had been together through so many great trials. Roy Mustang surrendered at last to his heart's deepest desire, casting aside the things that had separated the two of them for so long. They had no meaning any longer, in this place, at the culmination of their life's work. All the years of yearning and love flowered at once inside him, and he smiled back, a sweet, open smile of release and welcome. He held his arms wide.

Riza ran into them and they closed tightly about her. The third ring exploded, and the two of them clung to each other in the centre of the maelstrom, until their footing steadied. The paving stones of the city square were cracking all around them. She lifted her head and smiled again into his face. Waiting.

"I love you," Roy said. The very last regret, laid to rest.

Riza pulled his head down and kissed him. "And I love you," she murmured against his lips.

He buried his hands in her golden hair, on either side of her head, holding her close, kissing her hungrily, eagerly. He wanted to laugh, and cry – in fact he _was_ crying, he discovered to his surprise. They were tears of joy. She was here, she was his. And at last they were free!

He gazed into her face, and rubbed his thumb along a scrape on one of her cheeks. "You banged into something…?"

Her lips twitched. "In a manner of speaking. Jean didn't want me to come down here."

"Oh no. Poor Jean."

"I promised him you wouldn't hate him," Riza smiled.

"I don't," he breathed. "Oh, I don't!"

And the fourth ring exploded.

It was becoming harder and harder to keep their feet. The paving stones buckled, some of them splitting and ejecting small chunks into the air as the pressure built in the ground around them. Even buildings a few streets up, not yet directly affected by the explosions, were beginning to shake apart and collapse.

At the very centre, the ground was still relatively flat. Roy and Riza braced themselves carefully, arms tightly around each other.

"Fair thou art, my love," Roy murmured, the Ishbalan love poem springing again to his lips. His heart was so full. "I sleep, but my heart waketh to thy voice... Thy blossoming vines give forth their fragrance..." His fingers stroked her face, twined in her hair. "Riza...my Riza..."

She whispered in return, "May my beloved come into his garden, and gather its fruit..." Then, as he raised an eyebrow in surprise, she laughed. "I memorized it," she said, "afterward. So I could have something of you."

"You have all of me now," Roy said tenderly. "Forever."

"Forever," she repeated, and pulled his head down to kiss him again.

The fifth ring exploded. The ground shook so violently, it was very difficult to keep standing. The cracks in the paving stones became crevices, and the stones began to heave themselves upward. The cloud of debris loomed in a mighty circle all around the centre square, the killing force hurling itself closer and closer, the very dust now roaring and aflame.

He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the buckling stone and the approaching waves of fire, and felt the pressure building to its final crescendo. "There's no more time, Riza," he lamented. "I'm so sorry."

Riza gazed serenely back at him, touching his hair and laying a gentle hand along his cheek. "I love you, Roy," she answered softly. "I'm ready."

Roy pressed her face against his chest, against his heart, and tightened his left arm around her as she clung tightly to him. He bent and pressed his lips to her hair.

He lifted his right hand above their heads. It was time.

_**SNAP!**_


	9. We Who Remain

**Chapter 9 – We Who Remain**

"_No_!" Fuery screamed, leaping forward. "General Mustang's still in there! Stop!"

"This must be done," Armstrong replied without looking back, administering another blow and solidifying the blockage under the collapsed altar. The lamps placed at its four corners had fallen with the first blow, glass shattering on the stone floor, sparkling and popping in the midst of small, blazing pools of oil. The alchemic symbols on the backs of the man's huge gloves glowed like streaks of lava in the dimmed light. He added, "All the explosive force must be kept inside the cavern, to destroy the array completely."

"I know! But didn't you hear me? The general's still down there – you can't block the stairway till he's out! You're _trapping_ him in there! You have to clear the way so he can get out! _Are you listening to me_??" Fuery's pleas cut off with a harsh, gulping gasp.

The strongman continued to rain blows against the inner walls of the altar despite everything the younger man said, powerful arms drawing back, elbows bent, before heaving forward again with a mighty lunge and crashing fist against stone. The blood drained from Fuery's face as, in growing horror, it began to dawn on him that this was no mere miscalculation but was instead a deliberate act.

He hurled himself at Armstrong's broad back, beating his fists uselessly against it, trying to grab the man's arms to keep him from doing the awful thing he was doing. But the lieutenant colonel hardly noticed him, and he couldn't even get both hands around one of the alchemist's arms. He tried grabbing at the bottom edge of the man's uniform jacket, but it jerked out of his hands as Armstrong lunged again, and Fuery staggered backward, arms flailing.

Havoc braced himself for what was to come, and slid his own arms around the younger man's waist from behind, digging in his heels and almost literally dragging him back toward the first bench. He whipped him around until they stood face to face, and gripped both of the other's arms to hold him in place. "Kain, stop," he ground through clenched teeth. "It has to be this way."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Fuery demanded, face flushed in his desperation, his glasses askew. The two men now stood just inside a streak of light slanting toward the middle of the sanctuary from the foremost window. The sun had risen almost toward noon. Fuery blinked in the sudden glare, but continued to yell, "Havoc, don't you understand what's happening? Armstrong has locked him down there! _General Mustang can't get out!_"

"I know. He's not going to come out, Kain – "

Dismayed comprehension burst into Fuery's dark eyes. "No! No! How can you say that? Not you too! After everything he's done, you're just going to abandon him?" The young man began to sob in his rage and panic, shrieking the words into Havoc's face, shaking his head in wild denial of the terrible turn the morning had taken.

"You have to let me explain – "

"How can you do that to him?" Fuery screamed. "How can you be such monsters?? Both of you! _You can't just leave him down there to die!_"

"We don't have any choice – "

"Yes you do!" The younger man struggled in Havoc's hands, wrenching back and forth, fingers scraping like claws at the sleeves of Havoc's uniform as he tried to tear himself free. "What's wrong with the two of you?? You just have to wait – long enough for him to get up here! Just a few more minutes – that's all he needs! You'll kill him if you don't let him out. Don't you understand that?? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you two??"

The other three team leaders had drawn closer. "Havoc!" Breda yelled, clutching the man's shoulder. "Have you gone completely out of your mind?"

"Listen. You have to let me – listen – dammit, Breda, Kain – please! _Please listen to me_!"

It wasn't the frantic demand that smothered the words in Fuery's throat so abruptly, as much as the tears streaming down Havoc's pale, drawn face. Fuery took another sharp, gulping breath, gaping at him, as the others stepped past and stood with their younger comrade, the four of them aligned against him. They all glared with the same aghast accusation in their eyes. He looked them in the face, one after the other, each illuminated starkly in the streaming light – Ross, stiff and pale with shock; Falman, huddled into himself as though shrinking from the coming explanation; Breda, visage dark with fierce anger; and Fuery, hysteria building in his eyes.

Havoc braced himself to give them the awful truth. As all the while, Armstrong continued to batter the stone behind them, collapsing the walls of the stairwell as far down as he could possibly manage.

"You have to understand," Havoc began, throat tight. "There's nothing we can do. There's no other way to get this done."

"No other way..._except to kill him_?" Fuery shouted incredulously. He tried again to wrench himself free, but Havoc maintained an unbreakable grip on his arms, and held him where he was.

"It doesn't make sense. This just doesn't make sense," Falman kept muttering, arms hugged across his chest, cheeks gaunt with grey fear.

Havoc began to speak again but cut off the words as he saw, over Fuery's shoulder, that Armstrong had stepped back from the stairwell entrance, carefully examining his work. While the altar itself had mostly collapsed, the battered front panels remained almost upright, leaning against the pile of rubble behind. The others turned, following Havoc's gaze, and watched as the big alchemist placed a hand flat against one of the panels. He seemed to be listening to, as much as feeling, the vibrations in the rock, the concussions of his own work gradually dying down. Cash watched at his side in tense silence.

This was the crucial moment, the one potential weak spot in the whole project. Havoc remembered the ongoing discussions in the office, trying to decide whether Lance and Laura should remain here, to guarantee a complete sealing of the stairwell, or should be stationed at known vulnerable spots elsewhere in the city. Roy had finally decided, unilaterally, that Armstrong would stand here alone, and do the final sealing himself.

It had been the wisest choice, Havoc now realized, and he understood why the boss had made it. If the reaction of the other team leaders was any indication, he didn't think Lance or Laura would ever have agreed to close this exit as required and seal Roy Mustang inside the cavern, once they realized he hadn't returned to the surface.

Havoc wondered how far down Armstrong could sense, and how far the rubble had fallen into the stairwell. It had undoubtedly been joined by cave-ins of the stairway roof itself. It was crucial that not even the smallest gap remained, worming its way through the wreckage, or they could find a ton of shattered rock blasting at them from the ruined entrance when the first ring exploded.

Watching the big man through the bright window light, they saw him nod to himself, satisfied with what he sensed. Havoc released Fuery's arms, and followed the others back into the more subdued light nearer the ruined altar.

"Damn you, Armstrong." Breda's voice came faintly, as though shock had robbed him of all his energy. "What have you done?"

"He – he's your friend," Falman whispered. "You said – you said he was your dearest friend. Just last night. I don't understand...this doesn't make sense..."

The man half-turned to face them, one hand still pressed against the stone. Even in the dimness of the light at the front of the sanctuary, they could see his ashen face and recognize the grief in his eyes. "I have done," he responded heavily, "what is necessary. I am truly sorry."

"What is _nec_ – "Fuery began, face contorting in rage, but a sudden boom heaved the ground beneath their feet, and Armstrong whipped away to face the barrier again, both arms poised in case he needed to divert flying blocks of stone. A massive shock wave hit with a powerful rumble, shaking the ground again, before rebounding downward. The first ring had exploded, at the upper edges of the city in the cavern.

The stairwell barrier held, and so did all the reinforcing work Armstrong and the younger stone alchemists had done around the stairwell, just yesterday morning, as their final task. Havoc wasn't the only observer who understood, now, why it had been so necessary.

And they also understood, with sickening finality, that it was far, far too late for any rescue attempt.

But Fuery couldn't seem to give up, even now. He staggered toward the sealed entrance, faltering, "Can't – can't we do something? Can't we break through – stop it – get him out – "

Cash remained at his post beside Armstrong, but fixed his sombre grey eyes on the younger man, over his shoulder. He answered grimly, "No. I'm afraid it can't possibly be stopped now."

"Havoc," Breda rasped. "My god -- what have you done to him? Why have you done this to him?"

_Why?_ Havoc repeated to himself, the word stabbing through him like a knife. _Why did I let him talk me into this?? Oh Roy – why??_

Everyone fell silent, completely helpless to do anything but listen. Behind them shafted the bright sunlight, bathing the sanctuary with brilliant colour, rose and blue and shining gold. The shaking beneath their feet was already constant and relentless.

_What is he doing down there now?_ Havoc wondered. _Is he sorry now that he chose this path? He's still alive – at this moment, he is still alive. But I can't save him._

_Did Riza get down to him? Or is she already dead?_

_Why have you done this to me??_

And then, after an interminable wait, another boom.

"Two gone," Cash tallied, his voice the only other sound. Even Fuery's gasping sobs had fallen silent, as though he couldn't bear to breathe.

It took longer for the second shock wave to hit, but they felt it heave the ground beneath them and rebound against the barrier as the first one had, before turning downward to add to the building pressure. And again the barrier held firm.

They were probably safe. It would likely hold now. None of the other shock waves would be as strong as the first two, until the very last explosion. Havoc saw the tension in Cash's shoulders relax, very slightly.

"Jean – I don't understand." It was Ross, moving to stand at Havoc's elbow, her face drained a stark white. "How could you do this to him?"

"Maria – I – you have to believe me, I never – I wouldn't – " He fought to explain, but the words choked off in his throat as he faced the accusation and distress in her eyes.

There was nothing he could say to justify this to her. Not now, not while it was happening. Oh god, it was happening, and nothing could stop it, and he had left them down there! Havoc felt a scream building in the back of his throat, building like the shock waves in the city below, and he bent over, hands on knees, to fight it down, gasping for air as though he were suffocating. If once he let himself scream, he didn't know if he could ever make himself stop.

Oh Roy – Riza – _what have I done??_

The rumbling went on and on. Then another boom as the third ring exploded down below, and another longer pause before the shock wave hit. Bracing oneself against it had already become an automatic reaction. They felt it smash against the cavern roof, and sweep away again. The barrier remained unaffected, but the ground continued to shake and rumble beneath their feet.

"Timing?" Armstrong demanded tersely.

"Perfect so far," Cash replied.

_How can they go on so clinically, as though this is just another job?? _Havoc thought wildly. He clenched his fists and made himself breathe.

A chunk of masonry shook loose from a wall to their right, smashing onto the floor, and Havoc straightened and jerked around to look, almost in tandem with Cash. Just a bit of statuary, off to one side. Billows of plaster dust furled up into the sunlight from the smashed fragments. But the wall from which it had fallen was still intact; there weren't even any cracks, either in the wall or in the cold stone floor at its base.

Havoc turned back toward his friend, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. Cash's sober eyes met his for a long, tense moment before the man returned to his alert vigil.

The world had become nothing but a long, low, rumbling sound and a constant shudder beneath their feet. Until there came another boom, swelling the volume of the subterranean rumble yet again. Havoc suddenly realized that some of the noise was the sound of the buildings themselves, crashing down and smashing to pieces, row upon row, street after street. Turning at last to pulverized dust. Like the bench in that dead, dry park. Like the toys.

The scream kept building. He wondered if it would finally burst from him, and what would happen to him when it did.

"Four down," Cash continued his calm count, as the shock wave hit.

"Shut up!" Fuery sobbed, covering his ears. "Stop doing that! Please, oh please, just – just shut up!"

Armstrong pressed both hands to the barrier, bowing his forehead against it. The glow of the symbols on his gloves had faded away. "Roy," he whispered, voice cracking. "Oh, Roy."

Havoc, watching the man break concentration and begin to grieve, took a long, deep breath. And then another. He had to get hold of himself, and fast. If he didn't, all hell could break loose up here, the way it had below. And that would be disastrous. There was still so much to do, and somebody was going to have to keep discipline from collapsing into chaos.

"Steady," he murmured, though no one could hear him over the constant thundering from the cavern.

Another boom, and again the ground shuddered violently under their feet.

Breda groaned. "God damn. That's it – that's all of them."

"No," Havoc and Cash contradicted simultaneously. Again their eyes met. Havoc added heavily, in explanation, "There's one more ring, right inside the array. He has to set it off himself. If he…if he..."

"If he's still alive," Cash finished.

They waited, holding their collective breath. Havoc thought to himself, his heart aching, _Please – please let them be together at the end_.

And then it came – the final explosion, the most violent of them all. It boomed around and below them with deafening force, heaving the ground beneath them, throwing them off their feet. Another chunk of masonry fell behind them with a crash, and several of the stained glass windows shattered, huge panes of glass flying down to smash on the benches below . As Havoc went down, he could see Armstrong spread-eagled against the altar panels, fighting to keep himself upright, Cash clinging to him, both determined to maintain their watch on the state of the barrier.

If it held, even through this final violent upheaval, Havoc realized it would bode well for other reinforced locations throughout Central. But it was the ordinary buildings that suddenly worried him, listening to the masonry and the glass falling behind him. Thank goodness the windows didn't come all the way to the front of the sanctuary, or most of them might be dead by now. He crouched on hands and knees – or rather, elbows and knees, holding his hands over his bowed head – and hoped the men and women waiting outside in the streets were all right, and that nothing more had collapsed out there.

The earthquake seemed to last for hours, but it was really just a few minutes. Gradually it began to weaken, dying down to a steady shaking, and then to an enduring, thrumming vibration. Eventually both the sound and vibration faded away, dying at last to nothing. The stillness, in its turn, seemed almost loud, assaulting their ears as badly as the explosions had.

Havoc planted his hands on the floor and pushed himself up to sit back on his heels, ears ringing. Armstrong bent over, pressing his forehead against the stone of an altar panel. "It is finished," he murmured.

The silence stretched out, broken only by the sounds of gasping for breath and coughing through the disturbed dust of the sanctuary. Havoc reached over and helped Maria to sit up from where she had fallen to her face. At the sight of the small gash weeping blood above one of her eyebrows, he yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it gently against the wound. She took it from him in silence, without meeting his eyes.

He surveyed the scene before him. Dust had shaken loose from everywhere, and now seemed to cover everything – the benches, the floor, the scattered chunks of fallen masonry, the sparkling fall of glass. The three men nearby, as well as Maria to his right, could have been zombies lifting themselves from a grave, their dark uniforms overlaid with grey, a foggy miasma floating vaguely around them as they struggled to their feet.

Breda slapped his arms and legs vigorously to get the dust off, a cloud swirling around him as a result. Falman, caught in the middle of it, backed away, coughing and patting at his own limbs a little less energetically. Fuery made no move to clean himself off, his continuing tears making runnels in the dusty white mask of his face as he looked back and forth between Havoc and the men at the stairwell entrance.

At last Armstrong turned and faced them all. He took in the despair and betrayal in the eyes of Mustang's people, and lastly his gaze fell on Havoc, still sitting on his knees. His gaze softened. "Lieutenant Havoc is right," the man told them softly. "This could not have been done any other way."

"I don't believe that," Breda said flatly, his voice tight with grief.

"It doesn't make sense," Falman repeated. "If you would only explain...you have to explain this...it just doesn't make sense..."

The blaze in Fuery's eyes had not abated at all. "There's only one thing we need to know," he hissed, "and it's that you and Havoc have murdered him. You trapped General Mustang down there, and you killed him. You betrayed him. I swear, Havoc, I'll kill you for this – "

Havoc slowly got to his own feet, mechanically brushing dust from his jacket. "Shut up, Fuery," he returned savagely. "Just shut the _fuck_ up while I tell you what happened! You don't know what you're talking about. Why the hell would I turn on him like that, for no reason? I love the guy as much as you do, dammit! This was done," he growled, waving his hand toward the stairway, "by Roy Mustang's own orders. He planned it this way from the very beginning."

"I – I don't believe that," Breda said again, voice shaking. "I won't believe it. You're lying."

"Oh my god," Falman breathed, half to himself. "Could it really be...?"

Armstrong explained, "The only way the portal could be destroyed forever was for the general to be at the centre, to set off the final explosion. It had to be perfectly timed and coordinated. He could not have done this from a safe exit above the ruined city. He needed to be at the centre."

"Which meant," Havoc added, "that he couldn't even think of trying to escape."

Breda faltered, "He – he told you that? You knew he was going to do this? You _knew_?"

Havoc laughed sharply, without mirth. "No. He never said a word." He wiped an impatient hand, uselessly, at the tears that had begun again to stream down his cheeks. "I figured it out while I was down there just now. I argued with him – tried to get him to come back with me. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't. The bastard."

"You're lying!" Fuery insisted. "He wouldn't do something like this. You're lying. I know you are." He looked around at the others, appealing to them. "You saw General Mustang at the party last night, what a good time he was having, how much he enjoyed everything. He even talked to us about – about enjoying life, and how to make good moments for ourselves. Think about it! Did he look like a man planning to – to kill himself today?"

"Yes he did," Havoc bit off the words. "Don't you get it, Kain? The great food, the dance, his plan to throw the party before the explosion instead of after – and all those 'surprises' he announced. _He was saying goodbye to us_! And none of us caught on. I should have guessed long ago. All those signs – why didn't I figure them out? Why??" He hunched over, hugging his arms across his chest, sensing the screams yet again at the back of his throat. He gasped for breath, fighting them down.

Up to this point, Cash had hung back, as though trying to allow Mustang's core people time to sort this out amongst themselves. But now he stepped forward. "I knew from the beginning what he was doing. I could tell from the way he had us set up the explosives. There was no way he could be close enough to set off the final ring, and live through it. The man knew what he was doing, and he fully understood the consequences."

"You knew all that," Breda shouted, "and you didn't stop him??"

"I argued with him right till the last minute, believe me. But...no, in the end I didn't stop him," Cash shook his head grimly.

"_Why not??_" Fuery raged, clenching his fists as though ready to spring at the man and beat his face in.

Cash's jaw set. "I didn't stop him because I could see that he was right. There was simply no other way to get this done."

"Roy and I analyzed the situation together," Armstrong elaborated, "once the Elric boys went back through the portal. We both knew there was only one solution, if we were going to close it after them for good."

"So the two of you planned this, right from the start," Falman said. "Now it makes sense. All of it does." He was shivering. He couldn't seem to stop.

"Yes," Armstrong replied. "I'm very sorry. If it's any comfort, Roy was completely reconciled. I believe he embraced this task, as a way to make up for the destructive acts he committed in the past. And…he loved this world enough to save it, whatever it cost him."

"Oh yes," Breda grated bitterly, "that's some comfort, all right."

"There had to be another way," Fuery insisted. "You should have stopped him. You should never have let him do this – "

"Master Sergeant Fuery, that's _enough_!" Havoc barked, straightening up again, arms dropping to his sides. He glared at his four subordinates. "Mustang assessed the situation and made the decision he made. We all trusted him, didn't we? Then we have to accept that he made the best choice he could, for everyone. Now it's time to prove he was right in trusting us. Have you forgotten we're not finished this job? He chose us for this specifically, remember? We have to check the other known exits, to make sure they stayed sealed. And we have to investigate whether there've been any collapses in the city, from the explosions. We've all got inspection teams to coordinate, and they're waiting outside, ready to get started. The people of the city can't get back to their homes until we tell them it's safe. It's time we get on with our work."

"Then we...we're just supposed to leave him?" Fuery said plaintively. He turned toward Armstrong's barrier, as though even now, somehow, he could bring it down. He was still weeping.

"He's gone, Kain," Havoc said gently. "Roy's found his peace. And he's saved the world. If there's anything that would please that arrogant bastard more..." He stopped, and swallowed hard. "Look, we can cry all we want later, after we've finished the last jobs he gave us. Come on now. Falman, Breda, Ross. Let's get going. We've got people waiting." He turned on his heel and began walking down the long church hall, glass crunching under his feet, the sounds echoing in the high chamber. He sensed Ross hurrying behind him, and heard Breda sigh gloomily and fall in as well. And he thought he recognized the rhythm of Cash's footsteps not far behind them.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Fuery finally, reluctantly, beginning to follow the others into the sunlight from the windows, still half-turned as though looking for an excuse to run back. But trailing even further behind was Falman, just outside the light, angular shape indistinct as his steps slowed. He hesitated, turning back toward the blocked exit. "Lieutenant Havoc?" he asked suddenly. "Where is Lieutenant Hawkeye? Is she outside? I didn't see her when everyone was leaving. I thought she was with you."

Havoc halted abruptly, bowing his head. He stood in silence for a long time. "Where do you think?" he murmured at last. "She is where she's always been. Now let's go." He began to walk again, wincing as he heard the retching gasp behind him, and heard Fuery's fresh cry of horror.

Just as he reached the sanctuary door, he felt a hand on his arm, and found Ross beside him, folding his handkerchief so the blood was concealed. In silence she began to wipe the dust from his face, along with the mud it had become as his tears smeared through it.

He closed his eyes briefly against a fresh upswell of anguish, clutched the handkerchief, and gently pushed her hand away. "Let me," he choked. "If I let you touch me, I – I don't think I – "

"I understand," she murmured, dark eyes filling with pity. "Take heart, Lieutenant Havoc. You can do this." Then added, as though sensing what he most needed, "And I don't hate you, even though... But we'll talk about everything later."

He dragged another long breath into his lungs, and nodded silently, wiping the traces of grief from his face as well as he could manage. When the others began to come outside, he tried to put a comforting hand on Fuery's shoulder, but the younger man angrily shook it off.

He couldn't let it be important. There were things that had to be done. Roy was counting on them.

"Falman," he said crisply. "You know where Gracia, Scieszka, and Winry are staying, don't you? They have to hear this from one of us. Can you find a working phone and call them, and be back with your inspection team as quickly as possible?"

"Yes, sir – " Falman began, but Fuery interrupted.

"I'll do it. I want to talk to Winry. I – "

"No," said Havoc. "You're in no shape to talk to her right now. You'll fall apart, and you know it. We need you on the job, Fuery. You'll talk to her later, but right now you have to go over the streets and buildings and find out if everything has survived intact. That's far more important, and everyone in Central is depending on you. Understood?"

Fuery glared at him, but finally nodded with a jerk of his head. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Good. And all of you – you included, Cash. Don't tell anyone else, including your team members, about General Mustang or Lieutenant Hawkeye. Especially don't tell Laura or Lance. Armstrong and I will report to the Assembly leaders first, and once an official announcement has been made, then we'll be free to talk about it. Got it?" He waited until each of them had met his eyes and nodded agreement. "Now. Major Cash, you'll need to find the sub-commander of your team and tell him or her to take over. I want you to take charge of Hawkeye's group."

"Right," Cash nodded. "For the time being, I'll tell them she and Mustang needed to stay at the sanctuary for something."

"Good man. All right. Time to get going, all of you. You know where you're supposed to be."

Havoc continued wiping his face as he watched everyone disperse toward the groups of people waiting for each of them. With a surge of relief, he noted that all of the team members waiting outside had backed away to the other side of the street, sometime after the explosions had started. Though there was a smattering of glass at the base of the sanctuary's outer wall, it didn't look as though anyone had been hurt. Thank goodness for small mercies.

He hoped to god that Fuery could contain himself enough to get his job done. The young man was a professional, and Roy had chosen him to join the inner circle, after all. Surely he'd be all right, at least until the job was finished. Afterward…well, they'd have to deal with the aftermath later.

Reg Cash began to move away with the others, but abruptly hesitated, turning back. He faced Havoc, brows drawn together in distress – the same expression of misery he'd worn last night at the party when, Havoc now realized, he had tried so hard to avert what was to happen today.

"Jean," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me for this?"

Havoc stared at him, his hand shaking as he wiped the handkerchief across his eyes. He held it there for a long time. "I don't know, Reg," he said at last. "Maybe if I can ever forgive myself."

When he lowered his hand, he saw Cash walking away, head bowed.

Enough of this. Havoc shunted aside the memories of last night, and the horrors of the day, preparing to get on with his own tasks. There were more of those now than he'd planned for, so he couldn't waste any more time. He plucked the inevitable cigarette from a pocket and jammed it between his lips, then fumbled through another pocket for a match. But suddenly he stopped. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it in silence. Then cast it away with a grimace, tossing the box of matches after it.

Whereupon he straightened his shoulders and strode briskly after the others.

------

Armstrong, having watched from the shadows in the doorway, solemnly regarded Lieutenant Havoc's retreating back. No – Major Havoc now and, if Mustang's final recommendation went through, Lieutenant Colonel Havoc before much longer.

The strongman murmured softly, "Yes, Roy. I believe he is a worthy successor. Well done. All of it. Be at peace now, you and Riza both. My very dear friends."

------

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**Apotheosis**

_elevation or exaltation to divine status; deification_

_glorification; a sublime ideal; a transcendent example_


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The way tales told it later, Roy Mustang returned from his self-imposed exile purely out of the goodness of his heart and in service to his country, to try to save the world.

This romantic, idealistic image of the heroic Flame Alchemist took hold of the popular imagination very quickly. Very few among the general public knew, or indeed had much interest in, the mundane details of how their idol had actually gone about saving the world. Instead they grieved through the three official days of mourning, wept in the streets outside the state funeral where both the Flame and his Beloved were eulogized, and welcomed the news that plans were already underway for a commemorative statue in the square before Central military headquarters. It would feature General Mustang standing, arm raised, fingers ready to snap, while Major Hawkeye crouched at his side, gun at the ready, poised to protect him. The public wept again at the tragically romantic image.

There were ordinary details that the general populace never heard. Like the fact that Roy Mustang, to the surprise of almost everyone, was actually very wealthy. When his will was read, they learned that he had left his estate to be divided equally between Gracia Hughes and Riza Hawkeye, with Hawkeye given the option of refusing her half, so that the entire fortune would go to Gracia. This will had been made on the same day he had arranged the education fund for Elysia Hughes.

All of her friends knew what Hawkeye would have done. But they agreed that since Roy believed he could never tell Riza how much he loved her in life, he would have seen this as a way of telling her in death. But Gracia would have received all the money, even if Riza had survived. They were all agreed on that.

The mourning of Mustang's and Hawkeye's friends was more complex than the general populace could begin to guess. Being conducted very publicly, it took a heavy toll on them in private. For every occasion that someone said to them in public, "You must be very proud," there were a hundred lonely, solitary moments asking "_Why_?" Few people ever understood the regrets, the questions, and even the recriminations that were mixed with the understanding, the love and yes, the pride in what their friends had accomplished.

One thing the public did know about, for it was a very public affair, was the severe grilling Major Havoc took from both the Assembly leaders and those of the military. The newspapers, in fact, followed the hearings every day, their front pages splashed with photographs of Jean Havoc sitting alone at a table facing rows of stern interrogators, with a huge gallery of spectators arrayed behind him. For a while it looked as though the Major might take some blame for the two deaths, until both the former Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong and Major Cash came to his vehement defence. Both of them could testify to General Mustang's plans and intentions from the beginning. And in the end, their testimony, added to Major Havoc's accounts of his last encounters with General Mustang and Major Hawkeye, carried the day.

Jean Havoc was exonerated of any blame in their deaths. The large crowds who had gathered outside the public assembly building every day of the hearings threw flowers at his feet as he came outside after the final meeting. And General Mustang's very last official act – secretly recommending that Havoc be promoted quickly to Lieutenant Colonel – was finally implemented.

The public did not know until later that shortly after this, Lieutenant Colonel Havoc asked to be posted to distant Ishbal, where the military of Amestris was helping the Ishbalans rebuild their country. Or that he had requested that Major Reg Cash come with him, as well as any of Mustang's former subordinates who would be willing to go.

The public did learn of the Ishbalan response to the Flame's death, however. In the temples of that land, now rebuilt, prayers of gratitude were offered up, and the priests commended his soul and that of his fair consort to the care and mercy of Ishbala. While the people of Amestris were proud that their hero's fame extended beyond their own borders, most were still mystified that a man whose earliest fame had been achieved through the destruction of Ishbal would be so honoured.

Many in Amestris, some for the very first time in their lives, began to contemplate the deeper meaning of concepts such as redemption, sacrifice, and forgiveness. And these people, perhaps, finally began to understand the truths behind the legends that had already started spreading like wildfire.

Alex Louis Armstrong, who had worked so closely with Roy Mustang on his final project, always maintained that the Flame Alchemist would have undertaken the task whether or not he would be rewarded or honoured later. Those who knew him, despite the various mundane details they could add to the story, agreed that the popular tale was ultimately the true one after all: Roy Mustang had loved his country and his world, enough that he had been willing to give his very life's blood in their service.

And when people began to go into the old ruined sanctuary, to lay flowers before the stairwell that had once led down to the vast underground cavern, Roy's and Riza's friends went with them, and laid flowers of their own.

**---------**

_Once again, all the credit and appreciation in the world must go to Roaming Fool, who beta'd some of these chapters, and whose influence was felt in all the rest of them. Without her, this story would not be remotely what it is today. So – thanks infinitely, RF!_


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